


Draw Me Onward

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Romance, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2005-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merry likes Frodo. Sam likes Frodo. Frodo just likes lasses. A typical Sam/Frodo slash. Angst, romance, and humour; all present and accounted for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

“It’s hot,” Frodo complained, dabbing his brow with a wet cloth. “I’m sick to death of this confounded heat.”

“I’m not,” said Merry, gazing out the window at something in the garden. “Summer is when all the lads start to shed their clothes,” he continued, still staring dreamily out the window.

Frodo groaned. “Well that’s no consolation to me, I’m only interested in the lasses and they aren’t, for ‘propriety’s’ sake, allowed to take off their clothes.”

“Mmm,” said Merry not caring that Frodo could tell that he was only half listening. “Do you think…?”

“No, Merry, I do not think and if you continue to stare out that cursed window at Sam I will be forced to draw the curtains.”

Merry pouted, turning two angry, soulful eyes towards Frodo. “Just because you refuse to see what I see doesn’t give you the right you to deny _me_ of the pleasure.”

“It does when you are a guest in my smial and it is my gardener that your eyes are so free with.” Frodo’s voice was dry and he threw the damp cloth at Merry, hitting him squarely between the shoulder blades, making him jump.

Merry turned around to face him and smiled, a wicked smile. “You’re jealous.”

Frodo gave an exasperated sigh, “You are impossible Meriadoc. I’d forgotten how obsessed you tweenagers are with sex.”

“Oh, and you can talk. Need I remind you of Jasmine?”

Frodo smiled wistfully, dipping another cloth into a bowl of cool water and running it along the back of his neck. “I haven’t been with Jasmine for a year.”

Merry snorted. “Only because she dropped you like a hot coal as soon as you came of age. She likes her lads like she likes her pipe weed – fresh.”

Frodo choked. “Merry if you were not my cousin I would seriously consider never speaking to you again for a comment like that. Really, you have a mouth like a chamber pot. And a mind that’s not much cleaner, I’ll warrant.” Sinking back into the sofa, Frodo tried desperately to maintain his cool despite the heat and Merry’s seemingly endless provocation. “Besides the decision to end our relationship was mutual. Jasmine _is_ married after all.”  
  
“Married, hmph. Doesn’t stop her from deflowering half the –” Merry was cut off in the middle of his sentence as Frodo jumped suddenly from the sofa and began to stalk towards him with a menacing expression on his face.

“This discussion is now finished,” Frodo said with a snarl. “And if you value your life, my dear cousin, it will stay that way.” Merry tensed expecting Frodo to pounce on him and make him pay for his cheek. But Merry needn’t have worried, Frodo merely walked around the couch and out of the sitting room, muttering all the while about ungrateful cousins and their insolent behaviour. Jumping to his feet, Merry promptly followed him, and found himself in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” he asked Frodo, sounding maddeningly apologetic.

“I’m making myself a nice cool drink to calm me down before I give into the impulse to throttle your scrawny neck.”

Merry gave him a cheeky smile. “Why don’t you ask Sam to come inside and do it for you?”

Frodo sighed and flicked a berry at him. Taking up a position next to the window, Merry leant against the bench, a dreamy expression hovering on his face. “He really is a beauty, you know.”

Frodo shook his head and pulled a sieve from the cupboard. He scooped a few handfuls of berries into it and began to mash them with a spoon.

“I’m not the only one who thinks so,” Merry said, defensively. “A few of my cousins have tried for him and he just pretended to misunderstand them.”

Frodo continued to mash the berries, paying his attention with only half a mind. “Maybe he’s got a sweetheart already. I hear he is pretty cosy with Farmer Cotton’s young lass,” Frodo said.

Merry turned to him with a look of shock. “ _That_ fire breathing dragon?! A few of my cousins have gone for her too. They said she kicks like a mule _and_ they had the bruises to prove it.”

Frodo chuckled. “That hardly surprises me considering that, when courting, the Brandybucks possess all the tact and aplomb as a herd of stampeding oliphaunts.”

“Hmph,” Merry said, turning his back to Frodo and letting his gaze drift back to the garden. “Well _I’m_ not like that.”

Frodo raised an eyebrow. “Merry, since you turned 18 you’ve accidentally groped me 26 times, accidentally tripped over and fallen on my lips 9 times and accidentally crawled into my bed in the middle of the night 3 times. And on several of these occasions the only way I could stop you from continuing the ‘accident’ was to kick you, hard.”

“Oh, Lady,” Merry breathed and his body came to attention, still staring fixedly out the window. “Frodo you have to see this.”

Frodo began to scrape the spoon along the bottom of the sieve, ignoring Merry’s summons.

“Frodo!” Merry’s voice was urgent. He rushed over to Frodo and pulled him bodily to the window. “If _this_ doesn’t turn you on then I’ll give you up as a lost cause.”

Frodo sighed and looked out the window. It was always best to humour Merry when he was in one of these moods. Unfortunately for Frodo this ‘mood’ was actually Merry’s natural disposition. The object of supreme interest in the window was, of course, Sam.

Frodo pulled his arm from Merry’s grip impatiently. “I have seen my half-naked gardener before, my lad. Indeed he is a common sight in summer.”

Casting an impatient scowl behind him, Merry saw that Frodo’s gaze had shifted back to the berries. He grabbed Frodo’s head from behind and directed it back out the window.

“Have you really looked? That’s more than just a gardener out there or I’m not a Brandybuck.” Frodo sighed, resigning himself to the pretense of surveying his gardener from the kitchen window of his smial. Only Merry could provoke him into such a ridiculous scenario.

Frodo watched obligingly as Sam picked up a water skin and, tipping his face to the heavens, proceeded to drench himself with the contents. He tried to turn his head and make a biting comment to his cousin but was restrained as Merry quickly forced his gaze to return to the window. He then watched, unwillingly and with great displeasure, as the water slid gently down Sam’s face, gathered in pools at the base of his neck, then ran in rivulets over…

Muscles. Beautifully carved muscles sheathed with golden skin, glowing with moisture and the kiss of the sun. Frodo cleared his throat. He could see the appeal of such a body for Merry and his queer cousins but it held little attraction for him.

“What do you see?” Merry whispered, hoarsely, into Frodo’s ear.

“An enigma,” Frodo stated simply.

Merry frowned. He had expected many responses, his most optimistic expectation being, _Oh my goodness Merry you’re right and as I’m rather inconvenienced by this untimely arousal, would you mind terribly_ … but he had not expected that.

“How so?” Merry queried, puzzled enough to stop staring out the window.

Frodo gave him an appraising look. “Let me finish juicing these berries and then I will show you something. But …” Frodo held a hand up at Merry’s eager expression, “you must not breathe a word of what you see to that ‘golden beauty’ in the garden.”

Merry’s eyes were shining, he bounced over to Frodo and gave him a bear hug, almost causing him to tip up the bowl and send the juice to the floor. “I knew it. As soon as I got here I could tell that something was up. You had that ‘I’m excited cause I’ve found a new mystery’ to solve element in your pipe-smoking.”

Frodo rolled his eyes, rapidly being driven to the edge of exasperation. “There are no elements to pipe-smoking that could possibly divulge a person’s disposition. Merry, you are being ridiculous.” Frodo finished juicing the berries and filled three glasses with the rich, dark liquid. He passed one to Merry and set another on the table for Sam, smiling a little at the reprimand he would be sure to receive from him for this small act of kindness. Sam seemed to feel that Frodo ought not to care about any one else’s needs but his own. It was almost a crime in his gardener’s eyes for Frodo to waste his valuable attentions on a humble servant.

“Well,” said Frodo, cocking an eyebrow at his cousin, who, after bouncing excitedly around the kitchen, was once again transfixed by the window, “do you want to see the ‘mystery’ I have uncovered?”

Merry followed Frodo through the twisting hallways of the burrow to the study. This room had once belonged to Bilbo and Merry couldn’t help but feel as though he was trespassing. A few months short of a year had passed since Bilbo’s departure, yet still his presence seemed to linger. Merry’s gaze drifted around the room. Frodo had not changed many of the features of the room but Merry could see telltale hints of the recent transfer of ownership. The desk had moved closer to the window and the curtains were drawn back further than they had ever been in Bilbo’s time, giving the impression of greater space. The somber likenesses of Bilbo’s ancestors, which had in the past dwelt upon the mantelpiece, had been replaced with a likeness of the old hobbit himself.

Merry allowed himself to be distracted from his detailed examination of the room as Frodo picked a small box from the floor and placed it upon the desk. A cloud of dust rose from the box as it was set down causing Frodo to cough.

“I found this as I was sorting through some of Bilbo’s old papers. I wondered at it, as none of its contents is written in Bilbo’s hand. I think it must be Sam’s.”

Merry frowned. “What is it?”

“Lessons, the alphabet written out in schoolboy fashion, snippets of ill-formed prose and some poetry,” Frodo said casually, pulling some of the papers out for closer inspection.

Merry’s eyes lit up in undisclosed delight. “Private stuff!” he said almost ecstatically, skipping quickly over to the desk and tugging a handful of papers out of Frodo’s hands.

“Hey, be careful with those. I said that I wanted to show them to you not allow you to tear them to shreds. Besides…” Frodo said slowly, “I suppose they are private. I had not thought of that.”

Merry was, by this time, thoroughly ignoring Frodo. He was seated in a couch by the empty fireplace quickly sifting through the papers he had ungraciously procured from Frodo.

“Merry, wait. I don’t think we really have the right to just search this box and read what we please. It belongs to Sam, we best give it back to him.” Frodo began to pile the papers back into the box. He turned back to find Merry clasping a scrap of paper with a look of triumph.

“Merry, I said – ”

Merry waved his protest away with the scrap of paper. “Pooh, pooh. Sam will never know if we don’t tell him. Besides, I just found something.”

Frodo sighed, giving in to the inevitable. He didn’t suppose there would be anything too private in the box at any rate.

“What did you find?” said Frodo, patiently.

“A love poem.” He smiled impishly at Frodo and read:

_My love is a road_  
Delicate shades of desire shelter me  
Along the way  
A voice as sweet as the morning air  
Draws me onward  
Eyes as bright as diamonds in the night sky  
Guide me home 

Merry frowned when he finished. “I thought poetry was supposed to rhyme.”

Frodo took the piece of paper from him and read it over. “Sometimes poets find that sticking to the strict codes of traditional poetry can constrain meaning and depth of feeling. Some writers compose without a set pattern, letting the words, literally, speak for themselves.” Frodo looked up, realising suddenly that he had been lost in his own thoughts. Merry clapped him on the shoulder, playfully.

“That is my dear cousin’s convoluted way of saying that he likes it. Or perhaps he likes the sentiment the author professes,” he said, his cheeky expression suddenly breaking into a grin. “Maybe he thinks the poem is about him.”

Frodo scowled at Merry’s teasing. “I was merely wondering about the date scrawled along the bottom. Sam was 15 when he wrote this and though the style is immature the imagery is fairly evocative. It surprises me that a hobbit with his level of education would have a mind to form a poem like this.”

Merry’s grin widened. “And that is my dear cousin’s way of saying, ‘Wow, Sam’s mind is as hot as his body. Let me tie him to a bed and force him to recite wicked poetry to me all night long.’” Merry leapt from the couch with a squeal as Frodo suddenly lunged at him. He hit the couch full speed, missing Merry by inches but managing to overturn the large antique settee with a crash. Frodo chased his cousin around the room until Merry took shelter behind Bilbo’s large oak desk.

“You’ll pay for that, Merry,” Frodo said, as he prowled around the outside of the desk.

Merry kept his distance, making sure to keep the desk between them. “You’ll have to catch me first, Frodo.” Merry did a quick calculation in his head. He was presently closer to the study door than Frodo. If Frodo took one more step in Merry’s direction, the desk would be in Frodo’s way, preventing easy access to the exit. Frodo took the step and Merry broke into a desperate gallop to the door. “You’ll never catch me now, Frodo.” Merry’s voice echoed down the hall in his wake as Frodo ran out from behind the desk a few moments too late.

“I swear, Merry,” Frodo said in mock anger. “I shall tie you up and whip you for your impertinence.” The sound of Merry’s pounding feet came to an abrupt halt.

“You promise?” a hopeful-sounding voice replied and Frodo began to run at full speed in the direction from whence it came.

Sam had finished his morning’s work in the garden so he washed his hands and feet, pulled his shirt back on and went to find Frodo. He always managed to feel entirely too self-conscious around his master these days. No amount of anticipation could ever prepare him for the feel of those cool blue eyes meeting his. And those dangerously quizzical brows that made his stomach squirm and his heart ache. Sam had learnt the hard way that all these feelings were multiplied by ten if those eyes and brows caught him bending down to pull a weed, or with his sweat soaked shirt moulded to the contours of his body, or worse, far, far worse, _shirtless_. Aye, tending the gardens at Bag End was a perilous business for a gardener like Sam.

Sam took a deep breath as he reached the smial door. He straightened his shoulders and said viciously, “Don’t be a fool Gamgee, the master doesn’t bite.” With sudden relentless clarity an image formed in Sam’s mind and he knew that in certain circumstances he wouldn’t care at all if Frodo did bite. Sam sighed and tried to push the thought away. He opened the door and plunged into the cool sanctuary of the hallway.

“Frodo?” he called as he began to survey the smial for a sign of his master. There was no trace of Frodo in parlour or the sitting room and Sam took his search to the kitchen. He found the glass of juice waiting for him and smiled, feeling a mixture of amusement and affectionate annoyance at this unearned favour. Sam wished he could train his master out of this peculiar tendency to leave him little gifts. It was giving him ideas above his station and caused no end of confusion for him and his raging tweenage hormones.

He picked up the glass and sipped at it thoughtfully. The summer berries had been good this year and the juice was full and ripe. Sam raised the glass to his lips and was about to take another sip when a loud crash echoed through the smial and he very nearly jumped out of his skin. _Frodo!_ Sam thought, incoherently. His heart pounded loudly in his chest as he ran to protect his master from the various horrific scenarios his mind was rapidly creating to explain the crash. Jogging quickly down the main hall of the smial, he opened the doors of various rooms along the way, checking that none contained his master. He jumped again when Frodo’s voice rang out down the hall.

_You’ll pay for that, Merry._

“Frodo,” Sam whispered in sheer relief. His heart rate slowed and he allowed himself to breathe again. Just Frodo and Merry playing one of their games. Leaning heavily against a convenient wall, Sam took a few deep, calming breaths.

Sam frowned as his pulse returned to normal, realising with a jolt that there was some speculation at The Green Dragon over the nature of the games that Frodo played with Merry. And although Sam didn’t hold with such speculation, especially when it concerned his beloved master, he had no desire to be the one to discover its potential truth. He turned and began to trudge back the way he had just come, trying to close his ears as he heard Frodo’s alluring threat to tie Merry up and whip him. Stifling a groan, Sam broke into a run, shoving his hands over his ears as he heard Merry’s hopeful reply.

Arriving, almost by accident, to the door, he fell upon the handle, tumbling abruptly out of Bag End and into the bewildering sunlight. He slammed the heavy door behind him, setting the solid wood firmly between him and the scene he had just witnessed. Leaning into the textured surface of the door, Sam wished he could shut off his thoughts as effortlessly as the door had shut off Frodo and Merry’s conversation.

Sam spent the rest of the day lost in his own misery. Mechanically, he cooked tea and served it, trying desperately to ignore the playful banter between Frodo and Merry as they ate. Frodo insisted, as he always did, that Sam sit down to sup with them. Sam sat, obligingly, feeling the numbing effect of anguish tighten its hold on his heart.

Frodo never used the dining hall unless he had guests, and Merry was in and out of Bag End often enough that he was very nearly considered a permanent resident. The wooden table in the kitchen provided nicely for a spontaneous, intimate affair… and made Sam feel very much like a fifth wheel.

Sam was forced to watch while Merry leaned in close to his cousin and whispered something in his ear, causing Frodo to throw his dark, glossy curls back and laugh in delight. Sam’s fingers reflexively gripped his wineglass and he stared determinedly into his plate. He started compiling a mental list of all the reasons why Buckland was inferior to Hobbiton. Number one: Merry lives _there_ , number two: Frodo leaves Hobbiton occasionally to go _there_ , three: Bag End is _here_ not –

Sam was interrupted in the middle of his wallowing when Merry waved a hand impatiently in front of his face.

“Sam! Sam, where have you wondered off to?”

Snapping himself out of his thoughts Sam looked up and refocused. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m right here,” he said, keeping his face carefully blank and annoyance from registering in his voice.

Frodo smiled at him and Sam’s world went topsy-turvy as blue eyes, brimming with amusement, looked into his. But in an instant those eyes were gone and Sam’s lungs remembered that they needed air.

“He’s got you there, cos,” Frodo was saying to Merry when Sam finally recovered the ability to hear over the pounding in his chest. Frodo punched his cousin affectionately on the arm and Sam’s throat tightened at the painfully casual warmth of the gesture. Merry scowled at Frodo before turning his attention back to Sam.

“So,” he said, twirling a fork in his fingers. “How are the gardens going, Sam?”

The gardens. If Sam could paint murals he would paint them of flowers, if he could write sonnets he would compose them of trees. Sam looked at his hands and examined the dirt still lodged under his fingernails, despite his scrubbing. Sam nurtured gardens and he sustained them with earth.

“They’re doing fine, Mr. Meriadoc,” he said, lightly. “All of Mr. Frodo’s summer fruits are thrivin’.”

Merry’s eyes flicked to Sam’s hands and raked across his body. “I’m sure that everything of Frodo’s is thriving, under your gentle, tender ministrations,” he drawled.

Sam felt a warm blush creep across his cheeks. Merry couldn’t possibly know about…

There was a muffled thud and Merry exclaimed in pain. Sam realised with some perplexity that Frodo had just kicked his cousin underneath the table.

“Ouch, that hurt, Frodo,” Merry said with a pout.

“You deserved that and a great deal more besides for making our poor guest uncomfortable.” Frodo gave Sam a mock conspiratorial wink. “If you want to know about the gardens then drag your lazy self outside and look. Even the best poet could not begin to describe their beauty.” This last was directed at Sam and he blushed even deeper at the unexpected compliment.

Merry brightened and turned two brilliant eyes toward Sam. “I should like that very much,” he said, excitedly. “But only if Sam does me the courtesy of giving me a tour.” He looked up expectantly at Sam. “I’d want to explore it thoroughly, discover its nuances, figure out what makes it tick.” Merry fluttered his eyelashes and fiddled with his napkin. “It wouldn’t be much fun to do it alone.”

Frodo frowned at Merry but did not speak. Sam felt completely lost. There was a double meaning in Merry’s words but Sam was hardly in any state to figure it out.

“O’ course, sir. Be my pleasure to show you the gardens.”

Merry didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure the experience will provide mutual satisfaction,” he said, smiling coyly at Sam. “I find that exploring a new garden has the potential to open up a whole new way of seeing and experiencing… the Shire. It gives me the opportunity to come to a deeper awareness of… life. We grow as hobbits from endeavouring to come to the fullest understanding of… the environment as we can. And therefore we must have as many encounters with… nature as possible.”

Sam looked across the table at Merry, completely baffled by his ludicrously senseless speech. As his mouth was hanging open he said, “umm…” in order to shut it. But there was nothing that he could possibly think of to add to that umm and the silence stretched over the table like a heavy quilt.

Frodo broke the silence by clearing his throat. “Well, I don’t know about you, Sam, but I, for one, have absolutely no idea what Merry is going on about.”

Sam recognised his master’s save and gave him a shy smile in gratitude. Frodo smiled back before turning to Merry with a repressive look. Sam cast his eyes down to his plate and glowered in humiliation as realisation dawned. Merry was making fun of him. Trying to show him up as the naïve, rustic lad that he couldn’t help being. For what? For sport? And Frodo was no better. He just smiled at him benignly and offered him protection, which was both patronising and gratuitous. Poor simple Sam, so devoted to his precious garden that he understands naught else. He felt his face redden in shame and he took refuge behind his hands as conflicting thoughts threatened to overtake his usual composure.

“Sam?” Frodo’s soft voice jerked Sam out of his futile reverie. Once again those eyes, tender now and full of concern, collided with his. Sam tried to hold onto his feelings of betrayal but they melted away in an instant when subjected to Frodo’s insistent compassion.

“Mr. Frodo?” he said, making a brave attempt to dislodge the lump in his throat.

“Are you feeling alright?” Sam’s face must have betrayed his confusion as Frodo went on to clarify. “It’s just, you don’t seem yourself tonight. Are you ill?”

Sam’s thoughts were still coherent enough to register that Frodo had just given him a way of escaping this horribly awkward and bewildering situation. Part of Sam’s mind had abandoned all reason and was chanting _why Merry? why Merry?_ over and over. The other half, which Sam chose to label his functioning half, formulated a half-decent response, liberating himself from one kind of torture and depositing squarely him into another. Sam heard himself give some kind of mumbled explanation for feeling out of sorts. It involved blaming the heat and his devoted attentions to the garden, prompting Frodo to worry at him for being too devoted and Merry to ask whether he needed escorting home.

Sam finally managed to maneuver himself out of Bag End, without an escort, into the still-warm evening. The stars were out in their thousands and the night was clear and beautiful but Sam had no room in his heart to appreciate it. He almost wished he did have heat stroke, perhaps it would distract him from the all-consuming ache in the centre of his being. Of all the hobbits in the Shire that Sam could’ve fallen for, wretched fate had cursed him with a torch for Frodo, which never seemed to run out of fuel.

Deciding that he could not quite face his family, Sam took a stroll with his despair. Down by the river which glittered in the moonlight, Sam sat and listened as the river spoke, the regular rhythm of the water helping to sooth his distress.

Merry sank back into the comfortable armchair and lit up his pipe. He glanced up as Frodo entered the sitting room carrying a bottle of aged port and two glasses.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go down to The Green Dragon tonight, Merry? I can’t imagine that an evening in Bag End with an old bachelor would be very entertaining for a young lad,” Frodo said, giving Merry a wry smile.

Merry shrugged and blew out a lazy smoke ring. “Oh, I’ve quite lost my taste for flirting after that Boffin dumped me for a bloody Harfoot,” he replied in a bored voice.

Frodo raised his brows. “So I see,” he said in a voice that clearly indicated that he did not. “And your treatment of Sam this evening, was that another one of your ‘accidents’? Or perhaps you thought that torturing my timid gardener would somehow entertain me?”

Merry smirked and tapped his pipe. “How could I pass up the opportunity to make Sam blush? Besides, I’m sure that he thoroughly enjoyed my attentions. You’re just queer Frodo and you have an unhealthy attraction to lasses. I’ll have you know that in Buckland I’m considered quite a catch, not only with the lads.”

Giving a choked laugh, Frodo said, “I thank the stars for blessing me with this aberrance that keeps me from doing who knows what, with who knows who, as frequently, and with as much gusto, as you do, Merry.”

Turning his back to Merry, Frodo set the glasses on the sideboard. He uncorked the bottle and savoured the aroma, which spoke of seasons passed, and its vintage quality.

“My dear Frodo,” Merry said in a husky voice and Frodo started in surprise as Merry’s arms slid around his waist from behind. He had been concentrating on pouring the port and had not heard Merry’s approach. “You’ll not know true bliss until you’ve bedded a lad.” Merry’s arms tightened their hold on Frodo and a supple cheek was pressed against his neck. “Had him writhe and moan and gasp beneath you.” Merry’s breath teased Frodo’s ear. “Tasted his salt, breathed in his scent, awakened his body.”  
  
Merry’s hands began to slide down and Frodo quickly wrenched himself from Merry’s grip before those hands found purchase on anything too interesting. Frodo turned and placed a wineglass firmly into Merry’s suddenly empty hands. To Merry’s immense frustration Frodo was a picture of composure and a cool smile played upon his lips.

“I’ll take your word on that one cousin.”

Merry groaned and stamped his foot, unbalancing his careless hold on the wineglass, which threatened to spill its contents onto Frodo’s expensive carpet. “Why do you insist on being so stubborn? You could at least try it, just once. All you have to do is lie there and – ”

“Think of the Shire?” Frodo interjected.

“No, think of _my_ pleasure.”

Frodo took a sip of the port. “I’d prefer to think of my own. And fortunately young hobbit lads do not figure largely in my idea of pleasure.” Merry threw himself onto the couch, demoralized. Frodo’s brow wrinkled at Merry’s obviously distressed state. “Merry, are you sure that you don’t want to go to The Green Dragon?” he said, gently.

Merry’s bottom lip protruded slightly and he picked at a loose thread dangling from the armrest. “No,” he said, petulantly. “I want a quick, easy lay with someone who wants me for more than my title and my good looks.”

Frodo sighed and settled himself onto the couch next to Merry. He gave Merry’s knee a gentle, yet firmly platonic, pat. “In time you will find out that bedding someone like that is never quick, nor is it easy.”

Merry looked at Frodo, suddenly curious. “Did you love Jasmine?”

Frodo smiled rather wearily. “I’ve loved all of the hobbits that I have been with… for one reason or another.”

The hobbits fell into a comfortable silence for a time; both caught up in thoughts of their own. The port was having a pleasingly numbing effect and it was not long before the conversation moved to other matters.

“I’ll be out of your hair in a few days,” Merry said, eventually. “My mother wants me home at least seven months of the year and I’m trying to indulge her.” Looking up, Merry thought he saw a pained expression dart across Frodo’s face.

“I wasn’t aware that you were in my hair.” Frodo’s voice was light and Merry thought he must have imagined the initial response.

Merry grinned. “Well, that is not for the lack of trying on my part, I assure you. You are a tough nut to ruffle, Frodo Baggins.”

“Hmm,” Frodo said. “I don’t know about that.” His eyes darkened and Merry wondered what he was thinking. Merry blinked in surprise as Frodo answered his unspoken question. “I get lonely here, Merry. Now that Bilbo’s gone I don’t really have anyone to keep me company. Must you go so soon?”

Merry frowned, more than a little worried. Frodo was not ordinarily so frank. It usually took Merry a long time to coerce Frodo into revealing anything about himself. “No, I don’t have to go so soon,” Merry answered, carefully. “But I think it would be best if I did. You will still be alone here Frodo. It doesn’t matter when I leave.”

“I suppose you are right.”

Merry cringed at how defeated Frodo sounded. He racked his brain trying to think of something comforting to say. Suddenly a thought struck him but it was one that Frodo would probably dismiss as ludicrous. “Well,” Merry said tentatively. “You could always talk to Sam.”

Frodo set his wineglass onto the tea table. “I’ve tried. He insists upon maintaining the proper respectful distance that is required between a master and his servant. Apparently, friendship is impossible between the two.” Frodo smiled ruefully. “It took a month of argument just to get him to eat with me. Can you imagine how Sam would react if I pressured him for friendship?” A slightly troubled look playing on his face, Frodo drummed a beat with his fingertips upon the arm of the sofa. “Besides what could we possibly converse about? I know nothing of the gardens and Sam knows nothing of literature.”

Merry brightened. “Well, there’s your solution.” He threw Frodo an enthused look. “Why don’t you tutor Sam. He’s a bright lad. He’s not going to pass up the chance of an education. Besides, Bilbo’s already done the groundwork. All that you’d have to do is teach him elvish.”

Frodo picked up his glass and swilled the contents until it ran like a whirlpool. He watched the dark liquid course in circles as he contemplated Merry’s suggestion.

“I guess,” he said after a long moment. “I have little left to lose.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry likes Frodo. Sam likes Frodo. Frodo just likes lasses. A typical Sam/Frodo slash. Angst, romance, and humour; all present and accounted for.

_Sam’s face was tangled in Frodo’s hair. He was lying with Frodo in a bed of grass and lilacs and Frodo’s hair smelt of musk and sweetness. Frodo’s body was pressed up against him, his back against Sam’s chest, yet still he longed to be closer. But, oh, Sam could last a lifetime just like this. An eternity, with Frodo wrapped inside his arms and surrounded by the intoxicating scent of musk and earth and lilacs._

Sam’s thoughts were pleasantly blurred. The world was an indistinct haze in which Frodo’s body, comfortably ensconced in his, was all that existed. In spite of this (or perhaps because of) he was acutely aware of Frodo’s fingers traveling lightly, languidly down the inside of his arm. Down, down to the palm of his hand. Sam closed his eyes, losing himself in this moment of unadulterated contentment. He had wanted, waited for this for so long that the steady progress of those fingers upon his skin was making him quiver. He shook gently and buried his face deeper into Frodo’s hair, wondering a little at the depth of his desire.

One by one the fingers danced, softly arching in delicious figure eights back up to his wrist and began to twirl in deliberate circles. Sam moaned, his lips tickled delicately by midnight curls, “Frodo.” The other hobbit, encouraged by Sam’s approval, took him gently by the wrist and pressed his palm flat against a thin, linen shirt crumpled over a smooth, warm body. Sam’s hand was shifted, slowly, up the length Frodo’s body. His palm skimmed lightly over taut muscles and a tightened nipple and… oh, how Sam wished there was no shirt between his hand and Frodo’s skin. His wish was soon granted as his hand travelled over the collar and Sam felt the delightful intensity of Frodo’s flesh beneath his palm. His hand was allowed to linger there for a moment before Frodo dipped his head and pulled Sam’s fingers to his lips. Sam gasped as Frodo’s mouth began to tease his already sensitised fingers, licking and nipping at them, until his whole body was aching with the need to draw Frodo hard up against him. Sam tightened his free arm and did precisely that, groaning, “Frodo, Frodo…”

“Frodo.”

The air was hushed and still in the hour just before the break of dawn. As Sam came to consciousness he pulled a flat, lifeless pillow over his face and groaned again, though presently he had a slightly different motivation. How Sam hated this. Crashing back into reality to an empty bed and an emptier heart and the bittersweet torment of unfulfilled desire. The hollow memory of Frodo’s scent still lingered and he clutched at the bedding in a futile attempted to restrain his frustration.

Sam was aware that his limbs were tangled in his coarse cotton sheets, damp from the warm night and the exertion of his dream. He knew from previous experience that it would take a long time to undo the knots he had tied himself in. Desperately fending off another groan, he buried his face deeper into the pillow, hoping that his family hadn’t heard the resonance of his longing echoing through the thin walls of their home.

Eventually he managed to drag himself from his bed and into the kitchen. He grabbed a pail of water from the cellar and withdrew to his room. The water was cold and his body complained at him as he savagely attacked it with a soaked cloth. Sam ignored the cold and continued to rub himself raw; washing away the sweat, washing away the night, washing away the dream. Dressing himself in the half-light of dawn, Sam spent a great deal of time making sure his collar was straight, his cuffs secure, his suspenders tight, his buttons in order. Thinking of anything, _anything_ but Frodo.

He stepped out into the summer air, allowing himself a moment to indulge in the mingled fragrance of the Shire blossoms and the varied songs of the morning birds. Sam’s spirits lifted a little as he began to walk along the path that led to Farmer Cotton’s estate. Melancholy was very difficult to maintain in the face of all the natural beauty of the Shire.

The sun had yet to show its face over the dark horizon but Sam had no doubt that Rosie would be awake. He knocked softly on the kitchen entrance of the Cotton smial, hoping that Rosie’s family did not hear. The door opened and Rosie peered out, squinting in the darkness.

“Sam?” she said, as she promptly grasped him by the hands and drew him inside. “I was hoping you’d be by. Oh, I’ve had the most awful week.”

In the light of the few lanterns strewn about the kitchen Sam surveyed his friend in alarm.

“Oh, Rosie,” he choked in considerable distress at her appearance. A large bruise spread across her usually pale cheek and red marks rent down her chest before disappearing under her dress.

Rosie shrugged, indifferently, and turned back to her cooking. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said, belied by the fact that she had winced as she shrugged and all of her movements were, to Sam’s mind, far too cautious. Sam watched as Rosie methodically mixed flour, yeast and water in a large bowl, noting, with no small amount of anxiety, the finger shaped bruising at her wrists.

Sam said nothing. He pulled a large basket of mushrooms towards him, grabbed a knife and chopping board and began to slice, working his way deftly through the contents of the basket. When Sam eventually trusted his voice he said, “What caused it this time?” His feelings were revealed, not by his voice, but by his hands, which slipped as he spoke, the knife stabbing dangerously close to his fingers.

Rosie chose not to notice his blunder and continued to mix as though nothing in her life mattered more than the making of bread. “Father caught me sneaking back into my room in the wee hours of the morning. He didn’t like it much. He thought I’d been off to some tryst with a secret lover.” Rosie scoffed and flour flew across the kitchen as she thrust her hands into the dough. “As if I don’t already have enough lads and masters to make my life a misery! Why in Middle-Earth would I go looking for more?”

Sam sighed and cast a worried look in her direction. “Oh, Rosie. Why can’t you just play by their rules? Only for a while. Only till I can get you out of here.”

Rosie frowned and shook her head, her flame-coloured hair whipping aggressively through the air. “I’ll not be a prisoner, not now, not ever. A slave I may be but never a prisoner.”

“I know, Rosie, I know,” Sam said, soothingly. “I just hate to see you broken n’ bloody.”

Rosie pulled the dough out of the bowl and slammed it onto the table. “Bloody, maybe, but not broken. Every time they beat me they prove that I am not yet broken. When I have no more strength left to resist – then, and only then, may you call me broken.”

Sam cast an admiring, yet exasperated, glance at his cousin. She stood firmly, her hobbit feet planted sensibly and her back straight as she vigorously kneaded the dough. Rosie was not one to do anything by halves. Her father and brothers had discovered this the hard way when, as she approached her mid-teens, she began to question male authority. Sam wished, not for the first time, that he could take Rosie away from all of this. But deep down Sam knew that he could not protect her from all of the damaging aspects of the Shire, and Rosie would fight him, tooth and nail, if he tried.

Finishing with the mushrooms, Sam grabbed a smaller knife and began to peel and pare a basket of apples, throwing the naked pieces into a large stew pot. Rosie finished the bread, hurled it into a tin and thrust it into the oven. Without breaking her movements, she tipped another lot of flour into her mixing bowl and snatched a slab of butter from the bench. Sam watched her from the corner of his eye, envious of her fluid grace. The speed in which she accomplished her tasks still continued to surprise him. Rosie was, however, responsible for cooking, cleaning, sewing, darning and laundering for the entire Cotton household. She was also responsible for maintaining and milking the dairy cows, collecting the eggs and feeding the ducks, as well as any other chore her father and brothers decided only a lass could perform. Sam could easily understand how she had learnt to work so quickly.

Transferring the pot, now filled with the apple slices, to the stovetop, Sam ladled in some water and added some spices. Rosie finished rubbing the butter through the flour and placed a cloth over the pastry. She turned to Sam with a smile.

“Sit down, Sam, and tell me how you are.” Sam glanced around the kitchen to make sure there were no other tasks to be done. After satisfying himself that there was not, he sat and Rosie placed a glass of fresh milk on the table before him.

“I’m fine,” Sam replied, avoiding Rosie’s sharp eyes as she sunk into a chair opposite him. “The gardens are near burstin’ with life. I wouldn’t ha’ thought the rose bushes would take after bein’ shifted, but they did and the – ”

“As fascinating as I find Frodo’s garden, Sam, I would prefer to know why you obviously haven’t slept for the past few days.”

Sam cringed, he should have known that it was futile for him to try and hide his feelings from Rosie. “I’ve… been sick,” he managed to stammer, reddening a little under Rosie’s penetrating gaze.

“Hmm,” Rosie murmured as she finished her mouthful of milk. “A bad case of Frodoitis, I’m guessing. You’re still dreaming about him, aren’t you?” she said, impatiently. Sam blushed and attempted to bury his face in his glass. “I thought so.” Rosie stood and circled the room, blowing out all of the lamps. The sunlight streaming through the kitchen door was now strong enough to fill the room.

“You know, Sam, if Frodo ever even looks your way he will still only see you as a servant, nothing more. Masters may have the occasional dalliance with their gardener but only to add variety to their conquests. You deserve better than that.” She sat down in the chair beside him and took his hand, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You’ve no hope with him, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes were brimmed with tears as he spoke. “I know it, Rosie. Don’t you think it tears me up just to think o’ it? If I could stop feeling, every hour, every minute, like my insides are tryin’ to escape, I would.”

“Shh. Don’t cry,” Rosie said, patting his hand, comfortingly. “I’ve gone and said too much too soon, as usual.” She ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead. “Look at us now. What a frightful pair we make. You have a heart too big to be hidden and I have no heart at all.”

“That’s not true, Rosie. You ‘ave a soul, clear as a bell and louder, I’ll warrant,” Sam said, smiling a little through his tears.

Rosie snorted, “Ah, Sam, how could I possibly ever feel heartless around you? Now drink up your milk. I still have a heap of work to do this morning.”

Sam looked out of the door at the rapidly depleting daybreak. “That reminds me. Master Meriadoc is leaving this morning and Frodo asked me to be up at the smial this afternoon, to help with the packing.” He looked at his glass and before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out. “I think that Frodo and Merry are…”

There was a moment of silence before Rosie said, “Are you sure?”

Sam tried to quell the images and memories forming in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he willed his lips to form the word. “Yes.”

“Oh Sam, I’m sorry.”

Meriadoc’s pony had been stabled on a neighbouring estate for the duration of Merry’s stay at Bag End. The pony had not been properly exercised and was moving restlessly beneath Sam’s hands as he tried to secure Merry’s baggage. Sam couldn’t help but feel glad that Frodo’s cousin was leaving. Merry’s presence was a constant reminder of all that he could never have with Frodo. With Merry gone Sam could at least pretend that Frodo was his and this fabricated sense of comfort would be reinstated in Bag End. He finished packing the pony with a final satisfying tug and went in to inform Frodo that the task was accomplished.

As Sam entered the smial he stumbled upon Frodo and Merry locked in – what he could only assume was – a passionate embrace. Sam watched uncomfortably as Merry pulled reluctantly from Frodo’s arms. Merry’s hands gripped Frodo’s shoulders and they exchanged a look which, to Sam’s eye, said more than words ever could.

“Take care of yourself, cousin,” Merry said, after what Sam felt was an eternity.

Frodo reached up to hold Merry’s arms in a similar fashion. “I will.”

Sam decided that he did not wish to witness any more of this particular farewell and coughed to announce his person. The polite cough had saved many a servant in their hour of need and the strategy did not fail to work on this occasion. The two hobbits separated and turned in Sam’s direction.

Sam coughed again and said, “The pony is ready whenever Mr. Meriadoc is, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Thank-you, Sam.”

“Is there anything else you’ll be needing done, Mr. Frodo?”

“No, Sam, although there is a matter I wish to discuss with you. Would you see me in my study this afternoon, when you are finished in the gardens?”

Sam hesitated for a moment, trying to think of possible reasons for Frodo’s slightly unusual request. “Yes, sir,” he said, and took his leave.

The remainder of the day was passed in a worried haze with Sam trying to anticipate what Frodo could want to speak to him about. He tried to distract himself with his work but the weeding, planting and berry picking conversely gave him ample time to think. Did Frodo have a problem with Sam’s work in the garden? Perhaps Frodo had different tastes than old Bilbo and he thoroughly disliked Sam’s outdated methods. Or worse. Had Sam’s frequently snatched glances of longing been noticed? Would Frodo, filled with disgust at the absurdity of the idea, tell his Gaffer and send him home in disgrace? Sam’s head was full of these thoughts, each notion more ludicrous than the next, until he was nearly shaking from sheer nervous anxiety.

It was with a certain amount of dread that Sam approached Frodo’s study door that afternoon. He stood for a moment on the threshold, trying to steel his nerves and prepare himself for those eyes and whatever else he might encounter. He tapped the door tentatively before entering. Frodo was curled on a sofa near the empty fireplace. He put his book down and straightened, his body unfolding gently and gracefully like a cat, looking up with bright eyes to give Sam a warm smile. Sam felt his chest tighten in response.

“Sam, come in. Do sit down.” He indicated the sofa next to his and Sam sat, completely aware of the intimacy of the setting and the intensely uncomfortable proximity of the two chairs. “Would you like some wine?” Frodo offered, then laughed as Sam visibly stiffened.

“No, sir,” Sam said, his teeth clenching just a fraction at Frodo’s laughter.

“Oh, Sam.” Frodo rose and began to pour out two glasses of dark liquid. The smell of Shire grapes filled the small room and caused Sam’s head to ache. “Any other servant would jump at the chance to break their bread with the master and share his wine.”

_Aye, if that was all I wanted to share with you_ … But it wasn’t and it wasn’t fair of Frodo to ask this of him. Sam could maintain _his_ distance if Frodo would maintain _his_. Sam frowned and his eyes flashed dangerously. Suddenly it didn’t matter that Frodo thought nothing of him, for he had his pride. “Begging your pardon, _Master_ Frodo but you’ve no business talking for other hobbits as you don’t know.”

Frodo stood stock-still, his hands paused in the act of pouring the wine. He slowly lowered the bottle onto to sideboard and turned to look at Sam, visibly shocked. Sam felt his blood freeze in his veins and his pulse dropped to a snail’s pace as Frodo walked toward him, back to the couch.

“You know, Sam,” Frodo said, carefully. “I never know quite what to make of you. You refuse my company for the sake of propriety yet, in the same breath, you argue with me as though we were equals.”

Sam’s face immediately suffused with colour and he hastily tried to formulate an apology. “I – “ he managed to stammer before Frodo cut him off.

“No, Sam, don’t apologise. You were perfectly justified in saying what you did. I have no right to speak for the whole of the servant population.” Frodo sighed and ran a hand through his dark locks. Sam swallowed and tried not to notice how they sprang back into perfect unruly curls, duskily lit by the weakening rays of the afternoon sun, to frame his delicate, elfin features. He dragged his eyes away and studied the carpet, waiting for Frodo to give Sam some idea about what he wanted.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I seem to have started this rather badly.” Sam looked back at Frodo and found himself lost in two weary, repentant eyes. “I asked you here because I thought there was something I could do for you. But now I realise that my reasons are actually entirely selfish.”

Frodo shook his head as though trying to clear it of thought. “I suppose I should start from the beginning. I was sorting through some of Bilbo’s old junk last week and I came upon a curiosity.” He walked over to the desk and out of Sam’s vision. When he reappeared he was carrying a small box which Sam recognised immediately. “I did not have to read much to conclude that this belongs to you.” Frodo passed the box to Sam and sat back down.

Sam could feel Frodo’s eyes on him as he examined the object, fond memories playing in the back of his mind. It had been an impulsive gift from Bilbo in the winter of his thirteenth year. Bilbo always became bored in the colder months, so he had taken it upon himself to teach Sam his letters. Sam had spent two blissful winters cooped in old Bilbo’s study, discovering a whole new way of experiencing reality between the pages of successive musty volumes.

“It would be an abominable waste if such a mind were abandoned, illiterate,” Frodo said softly, his voice interrupting Sam’s reminiscence. Sam stared at Frodo too stunned to even blush at the high praise. Frodo took a deep breath. “I wish to tutor you, Sam. But before you decide, I must impress upon you that you are under no obligation to accept my offer. If you refuse,” Frodo spread his hands in acquiescence, “that is your choice and I will honour it.”

Sam studied Frodo, his brow wrinkled in a slight frown. He sensed that a great deal had been invested in this simple request but hadn’t the slightest clue as to why. Frodo couldn’t have more than a cursory interest in developing his gardener’s literacy.

Sam knew that his answer should be no. But with Frodo sitting that close, a façade of studied nonchalance so obviously disguising his mute appeal, Sam had no chance of compelling his mind, let alone his lips, to refuse. This was bad. Frodo didn’t want him, would never want him, and being conscious of this while working Frodo’s garden was distressing enough. Could Sam endure the torture of those eyes and coal lashes, which set Sam aflame even in the dead of winter, confined in and concentrated by this tiny, round room? If Sam said no, he might never suffer the touch of those long, finely-boned fingers as they accidentally brushed his on the way to the inkstand. He would be innocent of the anguish caused if Frodo were, perchance, to dip his head to look over Sam’s shoulder, luxurious locks tickling his cheek, the warm scent of musk and spices clouding Sam’s mind.

Oh, but that would be delicious agony.

Sam struggled to bite his tongue, struggled to gain control of his wayward body and walk out the door without a word. But Sam knew that the battle was decided before it had started and his half-hearted protests were in vain. He finally latched onto the only weapon at his disposal: practicality.

“What about the gardens, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo sat in his study for quite some time after Sam had gone to prepare supper, thinking of all the endings and beginnings that he had experienced within his relatively short life. He always started with endings because the world, as he had known it, had come to a close after the death of his parents, and finished with beginnings as he had forged a new life here in Hobbiton with Bilbo.

But it seems that his life was destined to lack any sort of permanence and his time with Bilbo had eventually come to an end. And where was he to find his beginning? In Hobbiton? Where acquaintances abounded but any sort of real friendship was as rare as dragon’s teeth. Where next? With Merry and his cousins in Buckland? But that would mean going back to a past long lost and a Frodo long forgotten.

It was true, however, that Hobbiton was not so alienating as he had once found it. Abruptly transplanted from the unruly, carefree existence he had known in Buckland into the staid, conservative atmosphere of Hobbiton, Frodo had had to learn a whole new social code… and had hated it. But after all these years and intervening trials, he remembered what he had learned to love. The beauty of the woodland and the meadows, the joy of his cousins’ frequent visits and the quiet friendships that had formed in the most unlikely places.

This is what he believed he could have with Sam. For after an arduous conversation full of propriety and practicality (those two most loathsome concepts) Sam had relented. And though Frodo had scoffed outwardly with Merry about Sam’s simplicity, inwardly he had seen flashes of Sam’s obvious insight and intelligence, which both intrigued and attracted him.

Frodo could hear the table being set and the cluttering of pots on the stovetop. The familiar homily sounds reminded him of summer nights after a long day of rambling, listening to the bustle of his uncle hastily preparing tea, bone-weary and his head still full of old elven stories. Frodo sighed. It was time to say goodbye. He had spent the better part of the year avoiding the finality of Bilbo’s absence; believing that his uncle would someday magically reappear as abruptly as he had disappeared. Days had stretched to weeks, weeks to months until Frodo could do naught but accept the certainty of Bilbo’s departure. But he had not yet said goodbye.

Tonight then. With the moon out and the summer breeze playing through the leaves, all of Bilbo’s haunts would seem like shadows and Frodo could let him go.

Frodo rose, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair and striding intently to the kitchen. Sam looked up at his approach, his brown eyes inscrutable. Feeling slightly uncomfortable under Sam’s gaze Frodo shrugged on his coat saying, “Sorry, Sam but I’m going out. You are welcome to eat here if you wish. Put my portion in the oven and I’ll sup when I get home.” Sam nodded in assent and Frodo knew that the dinner would be in the oven untouched when he got back. Frodo wished that there was some way he could communicate just how much Sam’s devotion meant to him. He smiled and imagined Sam’s consternation if Frodo were to hug him impulsively and kiss his cheek.

“Thank-you,” Frodo said, feeling the inadequacy of the words like a burr.

The summer night was warmer than Frodo had expected. He left his jacket hanging over his front gate, feeling the exhilaration of the night air seeping through his cotton shirt. Before he knew it he was wandering broken, unbeaten tracks, memories, good and bad, assailing him from all directions. Each place Frodo visited held its own significance, teeming with memories and emotion, which Frodo treasured. He opened his mind to them, cherishing the bittersweet quality of his reminiscence, allowing himself to let go of the pain he felt at Bilbo’s departure and absorbing the moments that made Bilbo dear to him.

Here was the meadow where he and Bilbo had rested after one of their long rambling adventures. Frodo closed his eyes and remembered gazing up into the heavens while Bilbo wove marvelous pictures from words and starlight. There was the field that he and Bilbo had had to run for their lives after a bull escaped from Farmer Fennel’s estate. Bilbo had managed to evade the rampaging creature unscathed, but Frodo tripped and fell on a sharp rock. He still wore a scar from the encounter.

Frodo tucked the memories carefully away into the back of his mind, knowing that he could revisit them at anytime without the painful sense of emptiness that had come to haunt his days. He stood at the top of The Hill and looked down over The Water, a breeze tugging at his curls as he took a deep breath and whispered his goodbye into the ink-black sky.

Some time passed before Frodo worked up the courage to pressure Sam into coming for his first lesson. After an unhelpful discussion with Sam, Frodo had decided that he could best spare Sam in the afternoon. Sam had churlishly agreed to spend the morning in the garden and it was arranged that he would meet Frodo in his study after lunching at home.

Frodo spent half a week in eager preparation for the set afternoon. He planned the lessons meticulously, pouring over all of Bilbo’s old elven books, to find material that would be of particular interest to Sam. Gardening and herb-lore (well, they were obvious) but Frodo also included some simple, melancholic poetry, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sam’s unique ability to compose. But what mattered most of all was that Sam enjoyed himself. Frodo did not want Sam to feel as though this was another chore for his master; a painful and unnecessary whim of Frodo’s that Sam had to force himself to endure.

Keen to make the lesson a success, Frodo was still busily trying to break an elvish poem down into its basic linguistic concepts, when Sam knocked on his study door and Frodo jumped in surprise, nearly running his quill through the paper. He had become so involved in what he was doing that he had not noticed the time pass and the sun slung low in the blank summer sky. Clearing his throat and tidying up the ink blotch, Frodo called to Sam to enter.

Sam pushed open the door cautiously and shuffled in, nervously wringing his hands. He darted his eyes at Frodo briefly as he said hello then returned them to the floor, looking, for all the world, as though he would rather be eaten by a cave troll than be stuck in the study with Frodo. Smiling inwardly, Frodo noted that Sam had washed and changed into clean clothes, youth and vibrancy radiating from him, despite, or perhaps because of, his awkwardness.

Frodo rose, suddenly feeling ill at ease himself. “Sam,” he said, in a voice he hoped was not too imperious. “Do sit down.” Sam moved quickly to the desk and sat in the chair Frodo had indicated. Frodo sat also, unsure of what to say to make Sam more comfortable, and they stared at each other in silence for a time.

Frodo tapped his quill against the edge of the inkpot. “Umm… How are the gardens going, Sam?”

“They’re goin’ fine, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, his eyes fixed on Frodo’s hand as it tapped.

Frodo mistimed a tap and the quill point jabbed into his hand as it struck the inkstand. Covering up his wince, Frodo let the quill fall to the table as though he had dropped it on purpose. “Fine?”

“Yes, sir. Fine.” Frodo rubbed his hand surreptitiously under the table.

“Errm… good.” He shuffled some of the papers on his desk, feeling uncomfortably like an officious master bestowing a meaningless and demeaning gift upon his servant. Shoving the papers aside, he looked up at Sam who met his gaze directly, albeit uneasily.

“Sam, I know I’ve said this before but I feel I must say it again. I can only teach you if you wish to learn. It will be hard work but I have seen enough to believe you entirely capable of understanding what I plan to teach you.” Frodo shook his head slightly. “But what really matters to me is satisfying _your_ needs. I don’t – ” Frodo stopped abruptly as Sam convulsed into a fit of coughing. As Sam showed no sign of ceasing his sudden fit, Frodo quickly moved to his side and patted ineffectually at his back, asking concernedly, “Sam, are you alright?”

Sam managed to control his coughing long enough to answer, “Yes, sir. It’s the heat.” Sam pointed at the window. “Could you…?”

“Of, course.” Frodo moved quickly to the window and opened it, letting in the cooling afternoon air. Sam drew in a few gulps of air and his breathing steadied.

“Sorry, sir,” Sam said, his face still ruddy from his exertions. “It’s bein’ all trapped up with the heat, like, that does it. With them windows all shut up n’ all. It’s the heat that does it,” he finished rather lamely.

Frodo smiled, returning to his desk. “It’s quite alright, Sam. You don’t have to explain.” He picked up a sheaf of paper and straightened it, catching Sam’s eye. “So, are you ready for your first challenge?” Frodo said, as he handed the paper over to Sam.

Sam blinked, staring mutely at him, and for a moment Frodo could have sworn he was about to collapse into another bout of coughing. Opening his mouth then closing it again, Sam took the sheaf of paper saying, “yes,” in a slightly strangled voice.

“Good. Let’s make a start, then, shall we?”

The lesson passed in a haze of elvish words and syntax and the sky was dark before either of the hobbits realised it. Sam showed a surprising aptitude at all of the tasks that he was set and Frodo was well pleased with the speed of his progress. His main concern was that Sam’s concentration appeared to be highly sensitive. Whenever Frodo leaned in to study Sam’s work, his quill would still, his breath would quicken, and he would not resume until Frodo had moved himself to an adequate distance. It puzzled him a little but the problem was not insurmountable. Frodo decided to keep his distance while Sam was engaged and only approach him when he needed assistance. He gathered himself onto the couch and picked up a book that he had been meaning to finish for a while now.

“Sir?” Frodo looked up from the book to meet Sam’s eyes.

“Yes, Sam?” Sam swallowed and blushed a little.

“Not that I’m wanting to stop or anythin’ Mr. Frodo but… I think I ought to be putting the tea on…” Sam looked pointedly out the window. “Right about now, sir.”

Frodo followed Sam’s eyes and concluded with some perplexity that the hour was indeed very late. In fact Sam’s Gaffer would probably be quite worried about his son’s tardiness by now.

“Don’t worry about cooking dinner, Sam. It’s too late. Let’s just throw something together from what we can scrounge from the pantry.” Frodo held up a hand stalling Sam’s objections. “And before you begin to lodge your protest, Samwise Gamgee, I’ll just remind you that there was no cook in Bag End before you started doing for us, and Bilbo and I managed somehow to survive.”

Sam appeared to consider this, surveying Frodo warily, as though he could somehow catch a flaw in Frodo’s reasoning if he looked hard enough. Frodo held his gaze, wondering how long it would take to get Sam to treat him as a friend and how many debates he would have to endure before they got there. Sam relented, dropping his eyes to the floor and Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. Frodo began to walk to the kitchen, hoping that Sam couldn’t sense the ridiculously happy smile plastered to his face as he followed a pace or two behind.

Once they were settled at the kitchen table with a more than satisfying array of food before them, Frodo resolved to bring up a second point of business with Sam.

“Did you enjoy this afternoon, Sam, or did you find it terribly dull?”

Sam swallowed his mouthful of food and looked up. “I enjoyed it, sir. Leastways I found it hard but not too terribly confusing, like I thought.” He cast a shy, sideways glance at Frodo through his lashes and Frodo’s breath caught a little. The lamplight played delicate patterns across Sam’s cheeks and Frodo would have had to have been blind not to notice the intensity of his eyes. _Oh, he’s a beauty all right, but not in the way that Merry thinks_... Frodo pulled himself hurriedly back to the present wondering if spending that much time with his boisterous, hormonal cousin was a very good idea.

“I’m glad. You did amazingly well if that was the first time you have encountered elvish. Your pronunciation is quite good.”

Sam ducked his head at the compliment, chewing at his food with a thoughtful expression. “Well, sir. It reminds me of water.”

“Water?”

“Yes, sir. It can bubble off your tongue like a brook, or flood like the river in a storm, or tap like rain against a windowpane. And I love how – ” Sam bit his tongue and blushed as though he had said too much, or was about to, and Frodo looked enquiringly at him, willing him to continue.

“Yes, Sam?” Sam reddened further and twisted a napkin into his hands.

“Nothing, sir. I mean… it’s just, elvish words sound so smooth from your lips.” He quickly lifted his fork and plied his mouth full of food in a vain attempt to stop himself from delivering any more painfully embarrassing statements.

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said, warmly and he meant it.

They ate in silence for a time, and Frodo found that he was beginning to feel more comfortable in Sam’s presence. He did not have to engage in a lengthy discussion in order to get Sam to eat with him, that was a start. There were still the ‘sirs’ and the ‘misters’ to worry about but Frodo knew that it would probably take years to train him out of that particular habit.

“Sam?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Since you do enjoy learning elvish I’d…” Frodo took a deep breath. “I’d like to ask for a favour of you in return.”

Sam blinked and swallowed, noisily. “O’ course, sir. Anything.”

“Well… I’ve been thinking and I… I would like to know more about the gardens. They always look so fresh and wonderful and they smell delicious. And I see you out there day in day out, coaxing life from the earth with nothing but your hands and your heart and… I want to know how you do it.”

“I use a lot more than my hands and my heart to get those plants to grow, for starters,” Sam said with a smile. “But what do you want to learn about the gardens for? You’ve got me an’ the Gaffer for that. What earthly reason would you have for wantin’ to grub about in the dirt like us common folk?”

Frodo smiled. “You are anything but common, Sam. I think you demonstrated that very clearly this afternoon. Besides, I’ve heard you talk enough about planting, weeding, mulching, composting and the like, enough to know that gardening involves much more than grubbing about in the dirt.”

“There’s naught else to it, Mr. Frodo,” Sam cried incredulously. “Begging your pardon, but gardening ain’t for the likes of you.”

“Pardon me, Sam,” Frodo said, softly. “But that decision is mine to make.”

Frodo continued to eat studiously, watching Sam through lowered lashes as he chewed his lip and frowned at his plate, clearly in considerable distress at Frodo’s rebuke.

“Sir, it would be my pleasure to learn you about the gardens, I just worry that it’ll not be to your taste, is all.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry likes Frodo. Sam likes Frodo. Frodo just likes lasses. A typical Sam/Frodo slash. Angst, romance, and humour; all present and accounted for.

It turned out that gardening was very much to Frodo’s liking and Frodo appeared before Sam on successive mornings clad in drab clothes and wearing a priceless smile, and Sam _knew_ that if this continued his world would surely collapse into a relentless swirl of desire, a never-ending blush and a series of choked stutters.

It was something about the way Frodo hunkered down in the dirt, as free as you please, digging his aristocratic toes right down into the soft earth with nary a care for the muck that wound up on his clothes and through his luscious curls. It was the way he looked at Sam with bright inquisitive eyes and a fire of heedful questions that showed he _really_ listened, he actually wanted to know about which flowers took best to a large bed with the freedom to roam and which needed gentle care and coaxing in order to bloom.  
  
But to Sam’s mind the worst of it was that Frodo seemed determined to erase all of the entirely necessary, comfortingly restrictive class boundaries that kept Sam safe from seeing Frodo’s true beauty. Beauty that had nothing to do with river-blue eyes, fine porcelain cheek-bones, transparent cotton draped over lithe muscle (that beauty was impossible _not_ to see) and everything to do with kindness, intelligence and… Sam tested the word in his mind… yes, friendship.

Sam tugged savagely at a weed, suddenly angry with himself for his foolish thoughts and angrier with Frodo for causing them. But the anger dissolved within a heartbeat as soon as Sam heard Frodo’s _Good morning, Sam_ from somewhere behind him and the tiny part of him that had been hoping that Frodo would stay inside this morning, melted eagerly into bliss.

“What have you got planned for today, Sam?” Frodo said and Sam stood, turning to face Frodo with a half-smile in greeting.

“Well, sir, there’s only weedin’ to be done today. I’ll have the petunias ready to plant on the ‘morrow. That’ll be more interestin’ work for you. This morning’s won’t be that, I’m afraid.” Sam cast a glance at Frodo, wishing desperately he would stay… no, scrub that… did _not_ stay, and transform Sam’s monotonous day of pulling weeds, into a day of chasing the dreams and impossible vistas that sprang from Frodo’s eyes and straight into Sam’s heart.

“Weeding will be just fine, Sam.” Frodo gave him a warm smile, melting his consciousness like sunshine on butter. “I do not expect that everything in the garden should entertain me. Like grappling with a particularly difficult translation, gardening must also have its tedious points.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam didn’t like to say it but he doubted that anything in the garden could ever be as strenuous as the intricacies of an elvish poem.

Frodo sunk easily into the dirt beside Sam and Sam’s skin bristled with the closeness of him.

“So, how do I pull a weed?”

Sam stared hard at his master wondering if he was joking. Sam had been pulling weeds since the age of four, surely everyone knew how it was done. But Frodo’s face belied his ignorance in this matter. Sam shrugged and turned back to the flowerbed.

“Watch me, sir, and I’ll show you how it’s done. Then you can try for a weed of your own.” Sam picked up his gardening fork and shoved it into the dirt next to a vicious looking plant that needed to be pulled. He wrapped a hand around the base of the plant and held on fast while loosening the dirt around the roots with the fork. The plant gave way and Sam held it up to show Frodo, the white roots dangling pitifully from his hand. Dumping the weed unceremoniously into the wheelbarrow, Sam passed the fork to Frodo indicating a weed before him.

“Your turn now, sir.”

Frodo ploughed the fork into the dirt next to the weed and began tugging at the plant in a vain effort. He hadn’t loosened the dirt around the base enough and he was pulling at the plant too hard and too fast. The stem broke off into Frodo’s hand and he fell back into the dirt, a bit of green clutched tightly in his fist.

Sam bit his lip to stop himself from laughing but he couldn’t, not with Frodo lying there looking bewildered, tousled hair falling into his eyes. Frodo looked up at him and suddenly they were both laughing, and Sam was full to near bursting with how good it felt to be here, sitting in the dirt with Frodo, earth in his hands and sun on his face.

After a few breathless moments Frodo gave him an impish grin.

“I think you’ll have to show me that again, Sam.”

Sam grinned back. “I think you might be right, sir.”

And Sam showed him. The way his Gaffer had shown him. Hand over hand, Sam’s front to Frodo’s back, Sam demonstrated how tight to hold the plant and how to perform the undulating movements required to loosen the soil, and this time when the weed came free, both hobbits tumbled back, Frodo landing neatly into Sam’s arms. But, unlike last time, neither of them were laughing. Before Sam had the chance to extract himself from under Frodo and apologise, Frodo turned to him with blue eyes sparkling.

“Oh, Sam you never told me that gardening was so much fun.” And as Sam lay there, his arms full of pale, lithe limbs, his eyes full of cream skin and dark curls, and a mind full of dusky imaginings, he thought, _Oh, aye, and who’s it fun_ for _exactly?_

And so passed a week. Frodo stalked Sam in the gardens almost every morning, he was trapped in the study with Frodo every second afternoon and haunted by Frodo in his dreams, relentlessly, every – single – night. Another week of this and Sam would surely go insane.

It was market day in Bywater and hobbits from near and far were setting up their stalls at a ridiculously early time in preparation for the long, busy day. Sam always got there at the crack of dawn, helping Rosie set up her family’s stall and getting his and Frodo’s shopping done and loaded into the cart before the rest of the Bywater and Hobbiton population descended onto the field.

“Morning, Sam.”

“Morni – ” Sam stopped in surprise. “Rosie! What in Bombadil’s name happened to your hair?” Rosie’s fiery locks had been messily shorn and her grey eyes looked uncommonly large against her freckled complexion. Rosie smiled suddenly.

“Do you like it?”

Sam surveyed her warily. “Did _you_ cut it?”

Rosie shook her head. “No, my Gaffer did. I took the day off yesterday, went on strike. I walked all the way to Three Farthing Stone and back again.”

“Why?”

Rosie shrugged. “Because I’ve never been. Did you know that I’ve only ever stepped foot out of the Hobbiton and Bywater area once. I was six years old and very ill. My mother took me to a special Healer on the outskirts of Tuckborough. Once, in the whole of my eighteen years.” Rosie sighed and ran her fingers through her short locks. “I don’t want this to be my life, Sam.”

Sam took her hand and squeezed it. “It won’t be.” He smiled and ruffled her hair. “You look like a lamb newly sheared. It’s a strange way of punishin’ a body if you ask me.”

“My Father is convinced I am courting half the lads from here to Hobbiton. He figured cutting my hair would keep them away.” Rosie pulled at the few dismal remaining locks. “I like it, it sets me apart from all of the bovine lasses that seem to populate Bywater and its surrounds.”

“Ah, Rosie, no’ne could mistake you for a dull-witted lass, with or without your shorn head, and tha’s a fact.”

Rosie smiled. “Thank you, Sam.” She surveyed the market-field, suddenly alert. “Look, I don’t want to talk here. Do you have time for a walk?”

“Aye, I do. But what about your stall, Rosie?”

Rosie shrugged and her jaw clenched. “Who cares? Let’s go.” Taking his hand, Rosie pulled him in the direction of the river before he had time to protest.

It was still dark out and the moon was still visible across the Water, its luminous quality dimmed by the onset of morning. Early birds trilled happy little songs from rich green treetops, and for the first time in his life Sam wished that the Shire was not so achingly glorious.

He transferred his gaze down to the hobbit beside him. She was beautiful, he supposed, even without her long fiery locks. Sam wondered how he hadn’t seen it, before. Intense grey eyes, shining with intelligence and wit. Eyes that had seen more than they should have from a very early age. A lithe, well-muscled body that had once helped drag him from the river when, as a child, he had clumsily fallen in. One day some lad or lass would take her away from him. Sam felt a swift pang of jealousy at the thought.

“I met a girl,” Rosie was saying as Sam drew himself back to the present.

“Did you?”

“Yes, she was nice.” Sam looked down at his friend a little baffled. Her face was strangely animated and a warm blush was threatening to drown her freckles.

“Rosie,” Sam said, impatiently. “You’ve never been one to speak in riddles afore. Please, don’t go startin’ on it now.”

Rosie’s cheeks went a deeper shade. “I met her when I took the trip to Three Farthing Stone. She works as a seamstress in Tuckborough.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned. “But Rosie, Tuckborough hasn’t got any seamstresses. Its only got a – oh…”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” His frown gradually changed into an expression of shocked awareness. Sam stopped abruptly and turned to Rosie. “But Rosie them lasses are… are…” Sam broke off realising that his vocabulary didn’t quite have enough words in it.

“Whores?” Sam swallowed and began to turn the same colour as Rosie. Shame-faced and surveying the ground Sam nodded.

“Not meaning to judge, but them lasses aren’t… aren’t respectable. I’ve heard talk– ”

“Aye, you’ve heard talk, everyone’s heard talk, but have you ever met one?” Sam dropped his eyes and shook his head in response. “Neither had I until yesterday. And before that I thought the same as you.” Rosie stared fixedly at the backs of her hands as she wiped her palms down her skirt. “The lass I met was so similar to me. She came from a poorer family but we could have shared the same Gaffer from the way she talked of hers.”

Sam looked at her dubiously, clearly doubting the status of her sanity.

“They do it for money, Sam. For independence. To get away from their narrow-minded, hypocritical families and find their own place in the world. Wouldn’t you escape if you had the chance?” Rosie’s eyes were shining, not with happiness but with desperation, and Sam nearly choked as he realised what she was saying. He gripped her arms tightly in his hands and forced her to look at him.

“ _No_ , Rosie,” he said, hoarsely, his voice choked with raw emotion. “No. There has to be some other way.” To Sam’s horror, Rosie sobbed, suddenly going limp in Sam’s hands and he wrapped his arms around her to stop her body from folding to the ground. He held her gently as the concentrated force of all her frustrated tears rent themselves forth onto Sam’s shoulder.

“Show me another way, Sam.” Rosie’s strong arms clutched him close as she cried into his shoulder. “Any other way and I’ll take it. But I can’t… I can’t do this anymore. If I stay here for much longer I’ll break.”

“Oh, Rosie,” Sam said softly, stroking his hand over her chopped locks. But he had nothing else to say and nothing more to give.

Sam guided Rosie over to a nearby tree and they sat beneath it until her sobs died down. Sliding a hand over her back for comfort, Sam whispered soothing words and Rosie sniffled as her moment of grief subsided.

A fortnight had passed since Sam’s first lesson and the beginning of a tenuous friendship between the two hobbits. Frodo had discovered a sharp wit and a quick mind in Sam and was continually surprised by his insightful observations and knack for poetic translations. And in the garden, Sam had opened up a whole new way of appreciating the raw and natural beauty of the Shire. Frodo was learning quickly that he could be gaining a lot more than he had bargained for from his golden-headed friend and not all of it was entirely commodious. The dreams, for example. The dreams – well, the dreams were… interesting.

Frodo sat in his study, listening to the familiar sound of Sam’s quill upon the paper. Sam was working very slowly today and Frodo suspected it was not entirely to do with his tendency to be easily distracted. Despite this, it had taken Frodo a while to realise that Sam was crying. Sam had been sitting across from him, bent over the study desk, appearing absorbed in the task that Frodo had set until he suddenly noticed the gathering pools of liquid blurring the text.

Frodo was unsure of what to do. He didn’t want to embarrass Sam by acknowledging his tears but ignoring a friend in pain would be even less acceptable. Watching Sam unobtrusively, Frodo chewed his lip, trying to decide on an appropriate course of action. Sam sniffed softly and another tear fell to the page. Compassion prompted Frodo’s hand to slide across the table and gently brush Sam’s.

“Sam, are you –” Sam jerked back at the touch but not before Frodo’s fingertips had registered that his hand was warm… and _soft_. Wiping his face with the back of his sleeves, Sam attempted to erase the evidence of his weeping. “…alright?”

“Sorry, sir.” Sam rubbed at his face again in a futile attempt to stop his tears. “I’m just a bit…” Sam rose from his chair unsteadily, mumbling something incoherent but Frodo thought he caught the words ‘go home’. He promptly took a firm hold of Sam’s arm and guided him to the sofa.

“You can go home whenever you want to, Sam,” he said in a comforting voice, pressing Sam into the sofa. “But first I think you ought to sit for a while and calm yourself down.” Frodo waited until Sam’s tears dried up somewhat before trying to discover the cause of them.

“Sam,” he said carefully. “Can you tell me why you are upset?”

Refusing to meet Frodo’s eyes, Sam shook his head. “No, sir,” he managed in a slightly wavering voice.

Frodo frowned, guilt and confusion gnawing at his insides. Maybe he had pushed Sam too far and too fast by insisting on gaining his friendship. Maybe Sam couldn’t cope with the pressure, what if he hated being cooped up indoors for so long?

“Do I…” Frodo faltered, unsure of how to continue. “Is it something I’ve done, Sam?” Sam’s dark eyes snapped up to meet his.

“No, sir,” he said quickly and very clearly.

Frodo’s brow furrowed further. “Are you sure? If studying is getting too much or–” Sam cut him off, shaking his head emphatically.

“No, sir. It ain’t like that. It’s just…” Sam was blushing furiously and his hands were shaking in his lap. Frodo had a sudden, completely irrational, urge to take one of those hands and press it to his lips. “A friend is in trouble. And I… I can’t help them. Tha’s all.”

“Oh.” Frodo longed to push for details and ask whether there was anything he could do, but he could tell already, from the set of Sam’s jaw, that further information would not be forthcoming. Sam turned his face away from Frodo, attempting to regain a level of composure. He drew in a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo, but I’ll have to be getting the tea on.” His shoulders stiff, Sam stood, walking swiftly to the door, never once looking back at Frodo. “Would you like anything particular, tonight?”

_Yes, I’d like to hold you until your hurt subsides. I’d like to pull you close, run my fingers through that golden hair and chase away the pain in your eyes. I’d like to taste you, just once, and see if you taste as delicious as you smell – What?!_ Oh. _Damn you Merry_.

“No, Sam. Something simple will do for tonight,” he said, mentally chastising himself for his improper thoughts. These too were becoming a regular occurrence.

In the garden the next morning Sam gave him a weary half smile as he approached. They had begun the summer planting and Frodo had found out that he quite enjoyed watching Sam work. For purely technical reasons, of course. It was fascinating how the dirt would respond so willingly as Sam loaded his shovel and chucked it over his shoulder, a shoulder that (Frodo couldn’t help noticing) was strong and broad, only covered by the thinnest sheen of cotton which clung eagerly to the heated skin beneath and… _oh bother, I am going to kill you Merry_.

Frodo abruptly silenced his mind as he jumped down into the already fairly sizeable hole that Sam had created. Sam stopped digging and, self-consciously mopping his brow, he leant against his shovel to talk to Frodo.

“Mornin’ sir.”

Frodo nodded in greeting, “Sam.” He surveyed the pit in which he was now standing. “Did you leave any work for me?” Sam grinned and an unfamiliar tingling feeling registered itself in the pit of Frodo’s stomach.

“O’ course I did. This pit here has got to be dug a lot deeper n’ this. Then we have to drag in a load of compost, mix it with the dirt, plant the seedlings before mulchin’ the bed with leaf litter.” Sam smiled, his eyes twinkling as he gave Frodo a cheeky wink. “You sure you’re up for it, sir?”

Frodo smiled back, thanking the stars that Sam did not know that his master was – ahem – _up_ for bedding quite a different sort of flower, whenever Sam looked like that. Winking playfully in response, Frodo said, “I believe that _you_ will be the one that will have trouble keeping up with _me_ , Sam. I may be older and,” Frodo’s eyes ran over Sam’s well muscled body, “not quite as active, but I have out-walked many a hobbit in my cross country trekking. I am sure that this will be no different.”  
  
Sam raised his brows skeptically.

“If you say so.” Sam reached down and grabbed a shovel, passing it to Frodo, seemingly unconscious of Frodo’s eyes, drinking him in. As Sam looked up, their eyes met and Frodo caught his breath. For an instant they stood there locked in the glance, hands poised in the act of passing the shovel. A mere instant then Sam broke the contact, turning his eyes to the earth. “There you go, Mr. Frodo.” Sam’s voice was jovial, too jovial.

“Thank-you, Sam.” Frodo’s voice was quiet, too quiet.

Frodo turned the metal instrument over in his hands. He had seen Sam use one of these day in and day out around the gardens of his smial, but he had never before held one. Sam had already returned to digging and Frodo watched him, hoping that he would be able to master the technique with a minimal amount of embarrassment. It wasn’t long before Frodo stopped watching Sam’s technique and started paying quite a lot of attention to Sam’s… well… Sam’s everything else. Frodo’s observations were cut short when Sam turned to him with a brow raised.

“Sir?” Frodo blushed slightly, realising he had been caught out.

“I… errm… I was just…” He trailed off lamely.

“You need some help?” And strangely enough Sam was blushing too. He cast aside his shovel and came to stand beside Frodo, one arm clasping the other tightly, betraying his discomfort. Frodo nodded his answer as the sizeable lump in his throat was making coherent speech an unlikely proposition.

Sam looked at Frodo’s hands. “Well, you put the square, sharp bit into the ground and you hold the other end,” he explained simply. Frodo looked down and attempted to imitate Sam’s stance, squaring his shoulders and planting his feet. He thrust the shovel at the ground but the earth beneath was packed hard and the tip only sank an inch or two into the soil. Frowning in concentration, Frodo tried to use his strength to push it deeper, to no avail.

“Here.” Frodo startled at the sound of Sam’s voice, so close to his ear. Sam’s arms came around him and Frodo was reminded of the first time Sam did this, teaching Frodo to pull a weed. Sam’s hands covered Frodo’s and Frodo wondered what would happen if he let himself close his eyes and lean back into the embrace. The thin layers of cotton between Frodo’s back and Sam’s front would offer little restriction to the sharing of their heat and Frodo, unable to stop himself, imagined the feel of that well-defined body pressed up against his own, imagined those hands sliding up and insinuating themselves beneath his clothing and – Sam’s front brushed against Frodo and he very nearly jumped out of his skin as the contact seared across his shoulder blade.

“Now Frodo, you just grasp the handle, here, like so. An’ you…” Sam’s gruff voice was like a caress and Frodo found himself adrift in its gentle rhythms. But Frodo’s mind snagged on something, some obvious detail that his mind had hitherto overlooked. “…place your foot on the edge…” Sam’s leg brushed softly against his and Frodo thought he was dreaming as Sam’s inner thigh came to rest against him. “…like this…” Sam’s breath whispered against his skin as Frodo realised: Sam’s voice was wavering.

Frodo had been embroiled in a serious but silent argument with himself for about half an hour before Sam announced his presence by knocking upon the study door. The serious argument that Frodo was involved in had occurred several times during the past week and Frodo was no closer to finding an equitable agreement than he had in the beginning. The subject of the heated dispute: Sam. Did Frodo, the master, love Sam, the servant, or did Frodo, the hobbit, love Sam, his fellow hobbit? Was love even part of it? Did Frodo, the lonely bachelor, lust after his loyal, devoted friend? _Yes. Oh, yes_.

But lately these questions had been forced to the back of Frodo’s mind as other more urgent ones had taken precedence. What exactly did it mean when Sam’s voice wavered? Had Sam’s voice always been so unsteady? Could the shaky quality of Sam’s vocal chords have anything to do with Frodo’s proximity? Was it all just a coincidence or did it mean…?

Hearing a soft knock on the study door, Frodo screwed up a piece of paper, covered with mindless doodlings and threw it at the waste paper basket. Glowering at the offending door, which had interrupted his internal debate, he wondered if he should just ignore it. He knew it was Sam.

“Sir?” Sam said uncertainly from the other side of the door. “I’m just letting you know that tea’ll be ready in a while.” Sam paused, obviously waiting for a response. Frodo kept his silence, half of him hoping Sam would go away, the other half hoping Sam would burst into the study and declare his love before ravishing him soundly upon the desktop. “I’ll be off home soon, unless somethin’ else needs doing.”

Frodo’s head whipped up at that. He had worked too long and too hard to build a connection with Sam to let it slip away now. Even disregarding all of the recent… developments, Frodo knew that Sam was a valuable, necessary part of his life. Frodo had no desire for things to return to what they once were, when he and Sam were naught but master and servant. Realising that he was being completely irrational and possibly even a little desperate, Frodo wrenched open the study door.

“Sam.” Already retreating down the hall, Sam turned back at the sound of Frodo’s voice. “Will you not dine with me tonight?”

Sam’s eyes were unreadable and he scrutinised Frodo for a long while before answering. “Do you wish it of me?” _Oh, if you only knew what I wish for_.

“Yes.”

Sam turned so that his face was obscured in the shadows of the dimly lit hall. “Then I’ll stay.” Sam continued his journey down the hall and Frodo watched, feeling a wave of hopelessness envelope him. Why did his life have to be so bloody complicated?

They ate in silence for a time and Frodo was unsure of whether the silence was a comfortable one. There were so many things he wished to say to Sam but strangely, despite his vast vocabulary, he had no words to say them with. Lifting his eyes briefly from his plate, Frodo stole a quick glance, watching Sam’s face surreptitiously from beneath his lashes. Sam’s usually clear brown eyes were now clouded with some emotion that Frodo couldn’t quite read. Taking another bite of the deliciously spiced stew, Frodo mulled over Sam’s expression. It was possibly grief; and though Frodo longed to offer comfort to Sam, he wasn’t sure quite how to do so. He took a deep breath.

“Sam.” Sam looked up. Opaque eyes drowned his vision and Frodo had a distinct need to swallow and rearrange his legs under the table.

“Sir?”

“The other day, in my study…” Frodo broke off, wondering if the question was too personal, wondering if he even had the right to ask. “You know you can tell me if…” Frodo paused again, looking down at his plate and pushing the lumpy stew around with his fork.

“I know, sir. And to tell you the truth I don’t mind tellin’ you none. But… the tale ain’t mine to tell, if you take my meaning.” Sam gave Frodo a frown, stuck between loyalty to Rosie and his wish to please Frodo.

Frodo nodded. “It’s alright, Sam. I understand. I just want you to know that… well, that I’m here for you if you ever need anyone to talk to.”

“Thank-you, Frodo.” Sam blushed a little but his gaze stayed steadily locked on Frodo’s. More than a little scared of what Sam might read in his eyes, Frodo dropped them to his plate. Frodo took a long while to recover himself from the depths of those eyes, so much so that it took him a moment to realise that Sam had left off the _Mr_.

“Sam, I…” Frodo grappled with the words, knowing that this moment needed to be acknowledged before it slipped away. He needed to let Sam know what it meant to him to be called by his name. But, for the second time that night, words failed him.

“It’s about Rosie.” Sam blurted out, fidgeting with the tablecloth and avoiding Frodo’s eyes. Frodo was lost. What did Rosie have to do with any of this? This was about Sam finally treating him as an equal. This was about heaven, manifesting itself for him, right here on Middle-Earth. This was not about Rosie.

“Sam, I…”

“I don’t mind tellin’ you, sir,” – Frodo flinched – “because your not that likely to come across many as knows her, so there’s no harm in tellin’ you.” Frodo rapidly tried to gather his scattered wits about him as he had obviously lost the plot of the entire conversation.

“What’s wrong with Rosie?” Frodo asked tentatively, wondering if he even knew a Rosie, and being certain of the fact that he did not want to be having a conversation with Sam about her.

“Oh there ain’t naught wrong with Rosie.” Sam ran a finger along a knot in the tabletop. “She’s perfect.” _Oh. That Rosie_. “It’s just… her family.”

“What about her family?” Frodo asked, trying to keep his voice from sounding like a death knell. He wished the floor would just open up and swallow him whole, right now, before the gut-wrenching pain kicked in and started to burn through him. _No wait – there it is_.

“Well…” Sam grabbed a roll from the breadbasket and began to crumble it into his stew. “Her gaffer and her brothers are a bit rough on her. An’ Rosie, well, she’s inclined to be a bit strong-willed. An’ so, y’see, the two clash an awful lot. An’ Rosie, she comes out with most of the bruises and the scrapes.”

Frodo was shocked out of his melancholy almost immediately. “You mean they beat her?” Sam looked about himself, distraught and almost in tears.

“Yes, sir.”

“But… but that’s terrible.” Frodo bit his lip, feeling sick to his stomach. He knew this kind of thing went on in the Shire, and many lasses were victims of the same circumstances, but Frodo was not desensitized by the knowledge. On the contrary, it made him intensely angry that so many lads could treat lasses so. “Is Rosie… I mean will Rosie be…”

“Oh, Rosie’s strong. Leastways, she’s stronger than any other hobbit I know. But…” Drawing a deep breath, Sam made a vain attempt to steady his voice, “she’ll not cope for much longer.” Sam dipped his head, trying to hide his tears but Frodo saw them and watched helplessly as they coursed down his cheeks and dripped to the table. “She’s thinkin’ of going to the whorehouse in Tuckborough.” Sam put his face in his hands and sobbed as the last of his defenses slipped away, leaving him open and vulnerable.

Frodo moved quickly and was kneeling beside Sam’s chair, pulling him down into a warm embrace, whispering soothing words, stroking him with gentle hands, before he even realised what he was doing. Sam slid willingly from the chair into Frodo’s lap and Frodo found that Sam fitted comfortably into his arms.

Frodo had often dreamt of ending the day like this; his arms full of Sam’s warm body, his ears full of melodious sobs. But in dreams the cause of Sam’s sobs was a little different. Feeling a pang of jealousy and despair, Frodo held Sam tighter, taking the moment for what it was and nothing more.

Sam’s grief slowly ebbed and eventually dissipated, leaving the hobbits twined in each other’s arms and intensely aware of each other’s physical presence. And Sam felt so good that Frodo did not want to let him go. _Just one more moment, just one._ Then Sam shifted awkwardly in Frodo’s arms and Frodo reluctantly loosened his hold.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sam said quietly, moving away and rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I’ve been thinkin’ on Rosie for a good long while and not had a soul to tell.”

“It’s quite alright, Sam. I’m glad you told me. I just wish that there was something I could do.” Sam gave him a half smile and Frodo struggled to keep his breath from quickening as dark eyes, rimmed with tear-wet lashes captured his. _Valar forfend, I hope she deserves you. You with your golden hair and your fathomless eyes._

Sam grinned sheepishly. “I feel like a right fool carryin’ on like this.”

“I don’t think you’re a fool for caring about a friend.” Frodo gave in to the temptation to reach across and brush a strand of Sam’s hair behind his ear. Sam’s eyes widened and he took a deep breath as Frodo’s fingers trailed down his cheek. He cleared his throat and quickly shuffled to his feet.

“I’ve got to be getting home soon or me Gaffer’ll start a’worrying.” Frodo stood also, trying not to feel hurt by the fact that Sam had obviously been alarmed by his touch.

“Of course, Sam,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “Don’t let me keep you.” Frodo was not entirely capable of keeping the pained chill from his voice and Sam looked at him, more than a little startled.

“Sir, I… I know this is steppin’ out of my place, n’all but if you ever need someone to natter to ‘bout anything, I’d hope you’d not look past your Sam.”

Tears began to well in Frodo’s eyes, Sam had offered him as much as he was able: a tentative offer of friendship, bound respectably by Shire social codes. The master is free to ‘natter’ to the servant, not vice versa. It was not enough and tonight Sam had already broken the code. Frodo had to grant that it had taken almost a month of extreme provocation combined with Sam’s weakened emotional state in order to force Sam into breaking the rule, but it was a start.

“Sam.” Sam looked back. They had moved from the kitchen to the entrance hall of the smial and Sam stood, waiting expectantly, on the threshold. “There is something I would like to ask of you.”

Inwardly Frodo cringed, he seemed to be forever taking liberties and begging for favours off of Sam.

“Yes, sir?”

Frodo worried at his lip. “I’d like you to come on walks with me. In the evenings Bilbo and I would often go on long rambles together and now going alone doesn’t quite seem the same. Would you be willing?”

Sam stared at him a moment, his eyes searching, assessing. “O’ course, sir.”

Sam murmured his good night and closed the door. Groaning softly, Frodo leant against the comfortingly solid wood and fought the urge to start banging his head against it. Sam loved Rosie, who was no doubt a brainless, bouncing, doe-eyed hobbitlass with a mind full of babies and domestic bliss. And Frodo loved… _Love? No, surely not_.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry likes Frodo. Sam likes Frodo. Frodo just likes lasses. A typical Sam/Frodo slash. Angst, romance, and humour; all present and accounted for.

The gardens were in full bloom and they spiced the air with delicious scents. Lost in thought, Sam frowned as he worked, trying to think of ways to distract his stubborn mind from its favourite subject. He was to see Rosie this afternoon. Aided most mornings by Frodo, Sam’s work in the gardens was minimal and Frodo had given him leave to take the afternoon off.

Finishing off the hedge with a final snap of the shears, Sam gathered his tools and stowed them in the shed. As Frodo was out on some point of business Sam didn’t need to take his leave. He washed quickly, pulled on his shirt and began to stride rapidly in the direction of Bywater.

These past few days Sam’s heart had been heavy with worry for his friend. He couldn’t count the number of times he had begged Rosie to marry him and move in with him and his family. Sam’s Gaffer would have no grounds to object, as Sam’s work provided the main source of income for the upkeep of the household. But Rosie had rejected him, bitterly declaring that one Gaffer’s roof was as bad as another’s and that Sam’s Gaffer was not much better than her own. Sam had to admit that she was right but if Rosie lived with him at least Sam could protect her. But inwardly Sam knew that Rosie hated needing protection almost as much as she hated being abused.

Sam had decided to take the more scenic route to Bywater, crossing the bridge then doubling back to walk alongside the Water, following the river until it ran into the Bywater pool. Nearing the pool, Sam stopped with an exclamation of surprise as he saw a familiar red head bobbing up amongst the clear, blue expanse. As Sam watched, the head disappeared beneath the rippling water to reappear on the other side an uncomfortably long time later. Rosie had always loved the water and Sam had always feared it; large bodies of water were too uncertain, too changeable, for Sam’s liking. Sam wandered over to the edge of the pool and sat, dangling his feet in the deliciously cool liquid.

It was peaceful here. Children ran playfully by the banks, a few tweenagers waded, daringly, up to their waists, splashing each other and squealing with laughter. An old gammer was wading girlishly through the shallows; her skirts tucked up into her underclothes. But none were as breathtakingly reckless as Rosie, who took to the depths like a lark in spring, spinning, flipping and diving through the water in an almost indecent display of carefree abandon. Sam was almost dizzy by the time she finally emerged, shaking herself free of the water.

Rosie looked up as Sam approached, smiling happily as she recognised him.

“Sam!” She raced over to him and hugged him, covering him with water in the process. Sam blushed at being molested by a scantily clad lass in a public place and caught a few scandalised expressions from a pair of old Gaffers as they passed by. Rosie laughed when she saw his face and slapped him lightly on the arm. “Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Sam. A few empty rumours aren’t going to kill you.”

Sam frowned. “No, but they could harm you.” His frown changed into a smile despite himself. He was glad to find Rosie happy and apparently unharmed.

“Not anymore.” Sam looked down at her wondering at what could have brought such a change over the young lass and hoping it wasn’t… But, no, it couldn’t be; the rumours would have reached Hobbiton by now.

“Rosie, what…?” Rosie caught the alarm in his voice and she smiled reassuringly.

“Don’t worry, it’s not what you think.” Rosie gathered up her clothes and they began to walk up river, back the way Sam had just come. “I’ve found a job. I’m an apprentice, if you like.” Running her shirt across her brow, Rosie cleared her face of the water dripping into her eyes.

“What as?” Sam was a little confused, there were very few jobs in the Shire that could be held by lasses and most of them were not particularly respectable.

Rosie looked distracted. “Oh, a Healer. But that’s not the important thing. The important question is who am I living with.”

“A Healer. But Rosie, Healer’s can’t be female.”

“I’m not a becoming an apprentice quack with their little leather bag full of instruments and superstitions. I’m becoming a _real_ Healer. I’m learning herb lore and midwifery; it’s much more scientific.”

Sam frowned. “But who’s teachin’ it to you? You can’t learn a thing like healing on your own.”

“Of course I can’t. I said that I’m an apprentice, therefore I have been apprenticed. In fact I am going to be living with my tutor quite soon.” Rosie tossed a sharp smile over her shoulder. “I bet you’ll like her, she’s an amazing hobbit and she has the most extraordinary amount of knowledge.” Rosie laughed. “I’m quite in awe of her actually.”

“So she’s not someone I know then?”

“Well she doesn’t live in Hobbiton or Bywater. She lives down south a bit by the Three Farthing Wood.”

Sam went a little pale at this information. “Not… you can’t mean the Farthing Stone Witch?”

Rosie raised her brows in a quizzical yet amused manner. “Is that what they call her?”

“That an’ worse Rosie. She’s trouble. My Gaffer said it ain’t healthy for a hobbit to live all alone in the woods as she does. Ain’t natural.” Sam leant forward and lowered his voice. “They say she meddles with shadow.”

Rosie stopped walking and turned to look at Sam. “Sam, sit down.” Sam lowered to the ground obediently and Rosie knelt beside him, staring out across the river at something unseen. Sam knew this expression; and he was often afraid that her thoughts, like the water, would someday draw her deep and that she would drown in them if she did not resurface. “Do you always pay your attention to the things your Gaffer says, Sam?” Rosie was not looking at him as she spoke; her gaze was still fixed out across the Water.

“No. Rosie, you know I don’t but…”

“And do you heed what other’s say when they speak against me or Bilbo or your precious Frodo?”

“No.”

“Sam, you have to learn to trust your own eyes and your own mind and judge things for yourself. Don’t rely on inferior intellects to do it for you.”

Sam sighed, skimming his hands across the grass beneath him, feeling the blades tickle his palms. “You’re right, Rosie. I ought to think awhile before I speak.” Frowning, Sam began to crumble a fallen leaf between his fingers. “I guess I haven’t been thinkin’ of much at all, lately.” Rosie looked at him then, pressing her fingers to her lips and transferring the kiss to his cheek.

“Sam, you think far more than any other hobbit I know. Save perhaps for – ” Rosie’s brow creased as she saw his downcast expression. “Oh, Sam. I’ve been so caught up in my own troubles that I haven’t paid yours any mind. How is the situation with Frodo?”

Sam bowed his head and let out a shaky breath in response. “Don’t ask, Rose. It ain’t worth it, less you want to hear the whole sorry tale.”

Taking his hand and patting it in a comforting way, Rosie gave Sam an encouraging smile. “Tell me. You can’t talk about it to anyone else. Besides, I’m feeling so giddy with my newfound freedom that I need something to anchor me back down.”

Leaning back into the hard trunk of an old willow, Sam spilled out all of the fears and doubts that had plagued him throughout the summer. He sheepishly described the highs; the feeling he got when Frodo smiled at him, praising him for his quick mind in the study, his cooking at the table or his patience in the garden. He shed tears as he described the lows; with Frodo overwhelming Sam’s thoughts and space, Sam had no way of dispelling the pain of knowing that Frodo could not and would not ever be his. But worst of all was Sam’s ever growing suspicion that Frodo was beginning to see him with new eyes; eyes that said _> I want_ but not _I need_. The temptation to dismiss his doubts and fall into those eyes was strong, too strong and Sam feared that he was fighting a losing battle.

“…but you can’t.” Rosie’s voice was firm but not harsh. She touched his arm gently, conveying her compassion. “Sam, if you fall now you will be his forever. I know your heart and it does not love lightly. You can not give yourself away unless Frodo returns your feelings in full and gives himself back to you.” Casting an intensely serious look at Sam from beneath her lashes, Rosie leant forward and brushed a tear from his cheek. “Is it possible that he loves you, Sam?”

Sam’s face hardened. “No. How could he? I’m a servant an’ he’s the master,” Sam spat out bitterly, wishing with all his might that things had been different, that Frodo and he were equals and that he was free to court him as such. But Sam had learnt early that being born poor meant constantly desiring the unattainable and Frodo was yet another happiness to be denied.

Rosie’s brows came together in a slight frown. “True. I have never heard of the two classes establishing real relationships but your Frodo might be an exception. From what you’ve told me it sounds as though Frodo is trying to get close to you in more ways than one. Teaching you elvish so that you can enter his world and coming into the garden so that he can enter yours. Now I may be completely off but that doesn’t sound like something you would do if all you were interested in was a quick tumble with your servant.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed as he thought about what Rosie had said. “Maybe. But all’s I know is that Bag End is empty of every soul ‘cept Frodo and suddenly he’s showin’ a great deal of interest in me. Could be that he wants friendship as well as a tumble. That’s fine and dandy for ‘im but I couldn’t live with it. As soon as one of his cousins came for a visit they’d take up right where they left off and then where would I be?”

Rosie nodded slowly and deliberately. “I know, Sam, and I’d be the last one to encourage you to pursue this. Even if Frodo did return your feelings you would still have a long hard road ahead of you.” She threw him a rueful glance and ruffled his curls. “Until you know Frodo’s mind, Sam, keep your head, your heart and your pants. You and I have known enough heartache within our lifetimes without going looking for it.”

Sam grimaced. “I wish it were that easy. I reckon he already has my head an’ heart. An’ if he does want my pants… well, I near passed out with pleasure the other night. An’ all he did was touch my cheek.”

Sam waited all morning and Frodo didn’t show. He tried not to think about it but he couldn’t help it. Passing by a patch of forget-me-nots would remind him of Frodo’s eyes, strolling past honeysuckle would remind him of those luscious lips, even the heady scent of wild roses would conjure up memories of how it felt when Frodo touched him. And confound it all, Frodo was doing this just to vex him. Sam had turned up to Bag End bright and early that morning, to find the smial empty. He’d searched the smial and the grounds yet still there was no trace of the dark haired hobbit. Eventually Sam had shrugged it off; concluding that Frodo was old enough to take care of himself. But this didn’t stop him from worrying.

Sam worried his way through the weeding, bit his lip through the trimming and frowned his way through the watering. It was when he finally retired, exhausted from the work and the worry, to the kitchen that he found the note.  
  
 _Dear Sam,_

Meet me at the bridge, midday today.

Frodo

Smiling, Sam touched his fingertips to the page, tracing the fluid ink marks across the paper. Frodo’s handwriting was beautiful, like the hobbit himself, graceful, impetuous, sublime. Sighing, Sam tucked the note into his pocket. Glancing out the window at the high sun Sam realised that midday was not far off. He got himself in order rapidly and was out the door of the smial with plenty of time to get down to the Water. Walking faster than necessary, Sam tried to contain his excitement and curiosity. It was completely unlike Frodo to do anything like this and Sam couldn’t keep himself from wondering what it meant.

Sam was early but as he approached the bridge he saw that Frodo was there already waiting. Frodo sat nonchalantly upon the railing of the bridge, swinging his legs carelessly over the side. He tossed a smile over his shoulder at Sam and Sam tried to keep his hands from grabbing that slender waist and pulling him to safety. Successfully conquering his rebellious impulse, Sam stood beside Frodo and leant his elbows against the wood. Frodo looked down at him, resting a hand on his for a moment and caressing it lightly. A heartbeat, a breath then Frodo pulled away, transferring his gaze to the water.

“You came.” It was a statement not a question but Sam felt it necessary to reply.

“Was I meant not to?” Frodo looked back at him and Sam saw that he wore an odd expression, half-puzzled, half something else. Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wishing desperately that he knew what was going on.

“Did you want to come?” Frodo’s eyes were accentuated by the sky and the water and for an instant Sam’s whole world turned blue.

“Yes.” Sir: Sam knew he should be saying it, cutting himself from Frodo with that monosyllabic word. But he couldn’t, not while Frodo’s eyes were so open and inviting.

“Then you were meant to come.” Frodo turned abruptly and swung his legs over the railing. Sam didn’t quite know how it happened but he caught Frodo in his arms as he made to jump back onto the bridge. Lowering Frodo gently onto the wooden slats, Sam fought to wrest his motor functions back under control. Wide-eyed and a little startled, Frodo watched him, a quizzical expression playing on his features and Sam bit his lip, hoping that his desires were not reflected in his eyes.

“Thank-you, Sam.” Sam imagined he could read a thousand different meanings into that thank-you, all desire/want/need/love. And, oh, how he wished… Pulling away quickly, Sam turned away from Frodo, gazing off down the road leading out of Hobbiton. Frodo was either obtuse or he was pretending not to notice Sam’s awkwardness as he began to walk steadily in the direction Sam was facing. “Come, Sam. We have a long walk ahead of us.” Frodo turned to face Sam but continued sauntering backwards down the path. “And I know that you tire so very easily so we best get started.”

Relaxing back into easy friendship, Sam grinned back into that cheeky smile and leapt down the path with a shout. “Hoy, you just try and catch me.” Sam raced headlong after Frodo, who ran like the wind down a path that appeared to be made of sunshine.

They traveled north-west by the Water keeping in silence by times and at others, chatting idly. Sam would point out the plants and creatures, which he knew so well, and Frodo would recite snatches of poetry, both hobbits gaining a greater understanding of their world and its intricate rhythms. It was comfortable, transformative, it was ages old. Free from all the restrictions of society, sharing this day, this hour, this minute until, all that Sam knew was Frodo and all that Frodo knew was Sam.

“I’m glad you came, Sam.” Sam lifted his eyes from the ground but Frodo did not meet them. He kept his gaze fixed in front of him as though he was talking to the alder tree.

“I’m glad you invited me, sir.” Frodo looked at him then, a little annoyed, a little reproachful, and perhaps a little hurt.

“Do we really need the ‘sirs’ out here, Sam?” Frodo indicated the trees, the sky, the water, all with a sweep of his hand. Sam felt his chest tighten. He needed the ‘sir’s’ all right. Without the ‘sir’s’ and the ‘Mr.’s’ there would be nothing between him and Frodo. Nothing to keep him from falling. Sam suppressed a grimace or a curse and warily continued to trail Frodo.

“I s’pose not.” They continued walking though Frodo had slowed up the pace considerably.

“Did you meet me at the bridge this afternoon because – ” Frodo’s voice faltered for a moment. “… because I am your master and I requested it?”

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. Surely Frodo had to know that Sam did everything for _him_ not the master. Sam doubted if he even knew what a master was, as Frodo had never really been that to him. It had caused Sam a great deal of heartache over the years, learning that others did not see things quite the same way.

Frodo stopped a few paces away and surveyed the ground and Sam sensed a deep sorrow within him that he didn’t quite understand. Unsure of exactly what he was trying to prove, Sam closed the distance between them and put a hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

“No, Frodo. I’ve never done naught for you that I wasn’t wanting to.” The tentative smile that rewarded him was brilliant, shining into the deepest recesses of Sam’s heart and it was all Sam could manage not to pull Frodo into his arms and taste those lips.

Sam dropped his hand and turned away, walking along the bank much faster than before. He could feel Frodo walking a touch behind him, the same peculiar quizzical expression he had worn in the encounter on the bridge, playing upon his face.

It was mid-afternoon when Frodo suggested they cross the river. Sam followed nervously as Frodo nimbly clambered down the bank. The Water this far north was not deep and a fallen tree served as a makeshift bridge, yet still Sam was afraid. Sam knew it was irrational; even if he fell, the water would barely reach his waist but looking down into that swirling mass of blue was making him nauseous.

“Here, Sam, take my hand.” Frodo reached out his hand trying to coax him onto the moss-covered log but Sam didn’t budge.

“Sam.” Looking up into those eyes, blue and as changeable as the river, was Sam’s undoing. He put his hand in Frodo’s. Frodo squeezed it, and Sam felt immediately reassured. “You shall not fall, my friend.” And Sam suddenly knew that he would follow Frodo across any river, across any sea without hesitation.

They had crossed the river and were heading back up the other side before Sam realised; Frodo’s hand was still nestled in his own. He wasn’t entirely sure of what to do about it. Should he pretend he needed to scratch his head? Maybe he could sneeze or cough then pull his hand away to catch it.

What could Frodo be thinking walking there beside him with a hand in his? Neither of them were speaking and Sam began to find the silence unbearable. Even the hills themselves were suspiciously silent as though they were waiting, waiting with bated breath for Sam to… What? Scream? Pull Frodo into a crushing embrace and declare his feelings right then and there, bodily, dragging him down into earth and grass?

This was too much for Sam and he wrenched himself from Frodo’s grasp, yelling the first thing that came into his head and racing across the meadow as if a dragon was on his tail. “Race you to the strawberries, Frodo!”

But though Sam was fast, Frodo was faster and it wasn’t long before he had caught up. To Sam’s surprise Frodo pounced on him as he drew near, hollering like a tweenager and sending the pair of them sprawling into the grass. Caught up in the energy of the moment, Sam whooped, grabbing a handful of grass, and shoving it down Frodo’s shirt. Too busy laughing and spluttering indignantly to make a serious attempt at repelling the attack, Frodo decided that revenge was the best defense and lunged at Sam, his hands full of the itchy ammunition. What Frodo lacked in strength, he more than made up for in speed and agility and Sam found himself on his back with his shirt stuffed full of grass before he had enough time to even blink. He tried to fend off Frodo’s deft fingers as they delved beneath his shirt, somehow managing to be delightfully arousing and unbearably irritating at the same time.

Sam grabbed at those hands as they went back for more grass. He managed to snare one and he pulled, unbalancing Frodo and causing him to fall – directly on top of Sam.

“Hello, Sam.” And that suddenly the game was no longer a game anymore. From this distance, Sam could read Frodo’s eyes better than he could read the seasons. He knew that whatever he could see in Frodo’s eyes was reflected in his own and Sam felt defenseless, lost somewhere in a dream that had suddenly turned very real.

“You know,” Frodo said in a voice that was a little too husky to be called conversational, “there are no strawberries in this field.” Eyes wider than a startled rabbit, Sam tried to force himself to resist, tried to will his unresponsive body into pulling away and pushing Frodo off him. Yet it was all in vain. As Frodo lowered his head Sam could do nothing but stare transfixed at those lips, a mere breath away from his own. Still, deep down, a tiny, self-protective part of him rebelled and Sam managed to gather up a handful of grass and dump it into Frodo’s locks.

Frodo pulled back with an outraged splutter and Sam laughed gaily.

“Hay-hair” he called over his shoulder as he jumped to his feet and broke into another run.

Frodo sat for a while, covered in grass, utterly confused by his own feelings and having absolutely no clue about Sam’s. He’d left that note this morning, hoping that Sam would see it as a tentative offer, the start of something more between them and if Sam didn’t show, Frodo would swallow his desires and try to be satisfied with friendship. But Sam had not only showed up, he’d worn bells. Catching him up into his arms on the bridge, taking his hand to cross the river and melting into his arms so beautifully as Frodo leant forward to… well, he doubted whether he could ever be satisfied with mere friendship now.

It took Frodo a little longer than usual to get to his feet and trudge after Sam but he managed it eventually. Frodo was uncertain of everything now, save that he wanted Sam desperately and he despaired of ever finding a way of easing the pain and mystification of those feelings only being half-requited. He found Sam in a patch of wildflowers, a slight frown on his face as he wove a chain of daisies. The lad looked like an elf-maid or a great king or both or neither and Frodo ached to touch him: this creature of nature that tormented his days and haunted his nights.

This was unbearable. What was Frodo meant to do with a gardener that made him feel like breaking loose with the four winds and soaring into the sky? A gardener who could share his mind and soul but not his heart. Sam looked up and gave Frodo a shy smile. Frodo looked away and began walking towards a copse of trees in the distance.

“Let’s go, Sam,” he said shortly, wincing as he heard how harsh he sounded. “I arranged a picnic,” he continued in a softer tone, “I thought we might be hungry after that walk and didn’t think we’d get back to Bag End in time for afternoon tea or dinner.”

They reached the copse and Frodo busied himself with pulling the picnic from its hiding place. With Sam’s help he straightened out the rug and began to laden it with the contents of the basket, watching Sam’s eyes widen in amazement at the assorted delicacies.

“You plannin’ on feeding the entire Took family, Mr. Frodo?” Frodo smiled, trying not to notice that Sam had started using ‘Mr.’ again.

“No.” Frodo knelt beside Sam on the blanket. “This is for you, Sam. Every night you create the most wonderful meals and I thought it was only fair that I should return the favour.”

“Oh, sir, you didn’t have to – _fruit buns_! Oh, don’t tell me they’re all the way from Tuckborough.”

“Of course they are, Sam. Finest buns in the Shire. You told me so yourself, don’t you remember?” Frodo smiled inwardly. He knew Sam loved the sticky buns and had gone to no small amount of effort to get a fresh batch for today’s picnic. Sam blushed and Frodo bit his lip at how painful it was to sit there beside him as though nothing had changed. He shook himself free of the thought and passed a bun to Sam. Their fingers brushed and Sam jerked his hand away, causing the bun to tumble to the mat. Both hobbits stared at the sweet in consternation. Finally, Sam cleared his throat to speak.

“I think I’ll save it for afters.”

“Of course.” Frodo delved back into the basket once again, trying to hide whatever it was that he was feeling.

It was a long meal. They ate mostly in silence but Frodo kept catching Sam watching him; opaque pools beneath long, dark lashes. Frodo doubted that those eyes missed much and wondered what they were seeing now.

Ending the meal with the fresh buns, Frodo and Sam leant back into the grass, resting their hands on their contented bellies and sighing. There was still tension between them and Frodo could feel it, rippling like a sigh or a touch into the muted daylight. At that moment Frodo would have given anything just to reach out and twine his fingers through Sam’s, and the growing darkness was almost enough to give him the courage. Almost. Even so, Frodo felt that a new intimacy was forming in the half-light, carrying them both into a closeness that needed no words, a territory that was both warm and unfamiliar.

Sam stood at last, stretching into a chiseled silhouette against the sunset, orange sparks highlighting his golden curls and making Frodo ache afresh. He turned his shadowed face to Frodo. “Oughtn’t we be headin’ back soon, sir?” Frodo blinked and pulled himself reluctantly from his reverie.

“Yes, we should. The river may be difficult to pass if we linger until the light fades.”

The journey home was much shorter as both hobbits were caught up in their own thoughts and talked little to each other. It was not unpleasant. The moon was not full but it was bright, filling the night with an atmosphere of peace and a subtle mystery. Frodo wondered at the heady sense of freedom that seemed to be bourne upon the air and he breathed it in, trying to unwind the tensely coiled feeling of anticipation in the pit of his stomach.

He wondered what Sam was thinking, walking quietly beside him in the dark. Glancing up, Frodo saw that the moonlight drew an enigmatic picture, casting his companion’s face into planes of shadow that served to intensify his beauty. He was so young and seemingly unformed but in possession of deep wells of understanding that Frodo was only beginning to perceive.

It was late when they finally reached Bag End and Frodo opened the door, turning back to see Sam standing awkwardly on the threshold.

“Come in for a drink, Sam.” Frodo hoped his voice didn’t sound as strained to Sam, as it did to his own ears. Sam turned away, looking pointedly down the Hill to the row.

“Sir, I ought to be getting back. My Gaffer’ll have my hide if I’m back any later.”

“Just one drink, Sam and you can go. I’ll send a note to your Gaffer in the morning thanking you for some chore and he’ll be none the wiser. Please, Sam.” Frodo didn’t usually push for anything and he regretted it now but, for some reason, he was almost desperate for Sam to stay and rid the smial of its perpetual emptiness.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Sam relented and stepped inside. Breathing a sigh of relief, Frodo pulled the door closed and led Sam through to the sitting room. Seating himself on the very edge of the sofa, Sam frowned and Frodo couldn’t help but notice that he looked more than a little uncomfortable. Frodo ran his palms down his shirt suddenly nervous. Sam had never been a guest in his smial alone and after daylight hours before.

“I’ll go and get the wine,” he said and fled the room.

Sam watched as Frodo departed, wondering how he had let himself get into this situation. He really had no excuse other than the fact that whenever Frodo looked at him his first response was to melt, his second, to capitulate. Inwardly, Sam cursed himself for his lack of resolve. He had had every intention of keeping his heart under lock and key but… with _such_ provocation. None but the coldest of hobbits could have denied Frodo’s simple request nor rejected his seemingly abundant kindness. Try as he might Sam could not think that Frodo had an ulterior motive. He was lonely and Sam was there, end of story.

Well into the aimless fidgeting stage of anxiety, Sam started when Frodo returned with the wine. He poured two glasses and came to sit beside Sam on the two-seater. All of Sam’s senses immediately prickled as his body responded in a familiar way to Frodo’s proximity. He took a long draught of the wine as soon as Frodo handed it to him.

“Sam.” A hand on Sam’s sensitised shoulder nearly made him leap from the sofa like a skittish pony and he turned to look into two amused eyes. “Relax. You look as though you’re about to do two rounds with Farmer Fennel’s prize bull.” Frodo’s voice softened and his eyes suddenly shadowed. “Is having a quiet drink with me really that disagreeable?” Sam had to look away and he took another gulp of wine to ease his apprehension.

“No. It’s just…” He trailed off, having no excuse for his fear besides the truth.

“It’s alright, Sam. You needn’t explain. I suppose it is really my fault for asking you to go above and beyond the call of duty just to humour me.” Frodo gave Sam a weak smile and Sam fought to keep his head and stop himself from confessing all the things he so desperately wanted Frodo to know. A third assault on the wineglass left it empty and Sam blinked in surprise. He placed it on the tea table with a decisive click.

“I should be going.” Frodo nodded solemnly, giving him a look devoid of hope and Sam’s heart sank.

“I suppose you should.”

“Aye, I will.” Sam didn’t move a muscle. Frodo’s eyes, full of longing and loneliness, had him held there faster than chains of mithril and he wanted… _oh, he wanted_ …

“You could stay.” Frodo spoke hesitantly, as though he were testing the words in his mind before speaking. Sam tilted his head to the side and drew in a shaky breath, knowing that Frodo couldn’t possibly mean what Sam wished he did… but, what _did_ he mean? “You could sleep in the guest bedroom. It’s dusty but…”

“Aye, I could.” Sam managed somehow to wrench his eyes away from Frodo’s and he gathered his coat off the back of the armchair. “But I won’t, I have to get home.” Keeping his gaze carefully fixed upon anything other than Frodo, Sam made his way to the smial entrance, a leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach. Each step felt heavier than the one before, as though the twisting hallways in Bag End had been transformed into a thick bog and Sam was moving much, much slower than he would have liked.

“Sam.” Sam had been concentrating so hard on the simple task of moving his legs that Frodo’s quiet voice behind him made him jump. “Please stay.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut in pain and frustration.

“I can’t.” If he didn’t leave soon he wouldn’t leave at all and Sam would never recover if Frodo rejected him and couldn’t even bear to think of how he would fare if Frodo _didn’t_.

“Why not?” There was hurt in Frodo’s voice and a hint of… _was it? Yes, desperation_. And, oh, the scent of Frodo’s hair was as overwhelmingly heady as a bottle of fine wine and Sam was helpless in its thrall. His mind swirled and twisted around the question until words spilled from him like water and Sam struggled to keep them contained.

“Because I can’t touch you and I can’t not. Because you’re like fire and ice and starlight; you burn in so many beautiful ways. Because I can see the future in your eyes but I am still bound by fate, by servitude. Because your eyes might wipe my senses, as easy as blink… but not my reason. Because…”

“Because?” And Frodo was very close now and surely… surely if Frodo didn’t want this then his eyes wouldn’t smoulder like the ashes of a blacksmith’s fire. A thousand more answers welled and swilled around his mind, all truth and lies, but he couldn’t utter a single one. Frodo’s lips were waiting, almost touching his own.

“Because…” Sam’s voice was no more than a whisper. _Because, I love you_.

“Sam,” Frodo closed the gap between them and brushed his lips across Sam’s. “You _can_ touch me.” Frodo’s voice was choked with what Sam could only read as desire and Sam could do nothing but stand there in shock as Frodo’s mouth found his, a gentle tongue tasting, teasing his lips until he parted them with a soft moan. Frodo grew bolder and strong arms wrapped around Sam’s waist to pull him closer, and Sam tasted wine and cinnamon in Frodo’s kiss.

It wasn’t until Frodo’s fingers tangled themselves into the hair at the nape Sam’s neck that he realised exactly where he was and what he was doing. As his hands slipped, of their own accord, around Frodo’s slender body, Rosie’s words suddenly assailed him with a brutal precision. _Until you know Frodo’s mind, Sam, keep your head, your heart and your pants. If you fall now you will be his forever_. As Frodo’s deft hands trailed fire down his neck, making his pulse quicken and his body melt, Sam came to the definite conclusion that he was indeed falling.

_No._

Groaning in frustration, Sam reclaimed control of his uncooperative body and twisted himself from Frodo’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Frodo, I can’t… I can’t…” he managed to mumble before reaching blindly for the door and stumbling through it, leaving a thoroughly bewildered and shaken Frodo in his wake.

He ran down the hill and through the gate and didn’t stop running until he reached his bedroom and had the door firmly closed behind him. Placing his back against the door he allowed his knees to finally buckle and he fought to keep his sobs quiet as he gave in to his grief.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry likes Frodo. Sam likes Frodo. Frodo just likes lasses. A typical Sam/Frodo slash. Angst, romance, and humour; all present and accounted for.

There was no dragging Sam out of bed the following morning and even Gaffer Gamgee was no match for Sam when he chose to be stubborn. So when Hamfast burst into his son’s room in the morning demanding an explanation for his tardiness Sam merely rolled over and stated simply, “I’m sick.” He didn’t even flinch when his father launched into his usual diatribe of guilt: from ignoring responsibilities to taking food from the mouths of his sisters. He simply waited for his father to finish his rant and take a breath, repeated his earlier statement in a quiet voice before asking his father to close the door on the way out.

It was obvious that Sam could not be argued into leaving his bed but this did not stop his Gaffer from trying. Eventually he gave up and left Sam alone with his wretched thoughts and his misery. Sam wished he could retreat to the sanctuary of the garden but he knew that returning to Bag End meant the possibility of seeing Frodo. And Sam was not at all sure he could cope with the ensuing scene. Curling himself up, Sam lost the fight against his tears, thinking for the thousandth time that he may as well have slept with Frodo; at least then the realisation that Frodo wanted a certain satisfaction from him would have been softened a little by the knowledge that for one night Frodo had been his.  
  
Surprising himself as much as his Gaffer, Sam did manage to rise the next day and found himself outside Bag End’s front gate trying to gather together the courage to face his master. He steeled himself and pushed against the gate, feeling that it creaked altogether too loudly for his liking and resolving to oil it as soon as possible.

Approaching the smial, Sam realised that all was not as expected. It was well into the ninth hour but the blinds were drawn and the door was closed. Knowing Frodo’s habits better than he knew his own, Sam knew that Frodo was an early riser and that he loved light and fresh air. The blinds and door were always open whenever Frodo was home.

Sam shrugged. If Frodo had gone away for a few days it was probably for the best. It would give Sam the time he needed to recover and by the time he got back Frodo would have hopefully forgotten that Sam existed and all could return to as it should be. Deep inside, a little part of him died at the thought but Sam ignored it, marching determinedly up the path to the smial intending to start work on the gardens after taking his weekly inventory of the kitchen larder.

Despite his conviction that the smial was empty, Sam pushed open the door quietly, entering the dark hole furtively and jumping at every sound. He made his way to the kitchen, cautiously peering around the entrance before satisfying himself that it was vacant and stepping inside.

“Hello, Sam.” Sam froze, turning towards Frodo who was sitting behind him, in the dark, holding a cup of tea. His usually sharp eyes had failed to pick up Frodo’s slender figure, half obscured by the vase in the centre of the table. Too astonished to reply, he stood and gaped, watching as Frodo casually stirred his tea. Frodo surveyed him calmly from beneath his lashes and Sam wished himself invisible. “You didn’t come to work yesterday.”

Sam frowned, struggling to find a way of making his excuse more convincing. He failed. “I was sick.”

“And you’re better now?” Frodo waved his hand dismissively before Sam could reply. “Don’t answer that.” Frodo took a sip of his tea and watched the leaves swim as they settled to the bottom. “I missed you.”

“I thought my Gaffer sent Marigold to come and – ” Frodo scowled briefly in annoyance.

“That’s not what I meant.” Sam blinked at the harsh tone of Frodo’s voice, deciding quickly that silence was the best defense. Frodo breathed in deeply and pushed his tea away. “Sam, I think you ought to sit down.” Biting his lip worriedly, Sam sat, wondering if it really was tea that Frodo was drinking.

“Why did you…” Frodo paused and looked up at Sam briefly as if trying to gather together the courage to continue. “Why did you leave the other night, Sam?”

Sam studied the table but his eyes did not register its worn groves and familiar scratched surface. The question was not one he could answer without knowing Frodo’s heart and he was not about to expose his own heart by asking after Frodo’s. In response to Sam’s silence, Frodo continued talking, and Sam wrung his hands beneath the table, trying desperately to suppress his myriad of emotions.

“These past few weeks have proven that we are well-matched as friends,” Frodo said quietly, his eyes seeking Sam’s and resting there a moment. He looked away again, pulling the cup of tea back towards him and fiddling with the spoon. “… and perhaps… as something more…”

Watching him and the slight anxious frown on his face, Sam fought down the urge to reach for him right now, whispering, chanting _I want you, oh, I want you, I can’t tell you how much._ Sam pressed his hands together between his knees to keep them from touching what they shouldn’t.

“Why do you continue to push me away?” Sam could do little but sit there as Frodo looked at him imploringly, after all what could he say? He couldn’t tell Frodo the truth, nor could he imply it; it wasn’t his place.

“Sir,” he said, using the word like a shield and a weapon and he watched in pain as it left its mark on Frodo’s face. “I would rather not have this talk right now. Neither of us is thinkin’ clearly and we’re sure to get things muddled.” Sam ran a hand through his locks, exhaling slowly. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you want.” Pushing back his chair Sam turned towards the door but Frodo moved quickly and blocked the exit, his brow creased with anger.

“What _I_ want? Sam I would never have…” Frodo’s eyes searched his face in consternation as the colour rose in his cheeks. “…never without your consent.” Sam closed his eyes, hoping he could endure this without being torn in two. He looked up trying to communicate everything that he could not say with words, in a glance.

“Frodo, I can’t…” he managed to say before Frodo moved closer, gripping his arm and pulling him near, forcing Sam to meet his heated gaze.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want me.”

_Oh, aye there ain’t no denying that._ Being this near to Frodo after knowing the touch of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his inviting lips was driving him to distraction and he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, he was lost and disoriented. It would be so easy… just to lose himself in Frodo’s eyes, melt, dissolve into his mouth and worry about retrieving his heart after he’d taken his fill of that porcelain skin and once again felt the tangle of those fingers through his hair. But Frodo pulled away before Sam had the chance to fully drown within the depths of his longing. Sam watched helplessly as Frodo lowered his eyes and moved to a safer distance.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t have… I mean– ” Frodo sighed. “If you are ready to return to your work you may do so.” Sam couldn’t bear to see Frodo like this. However much he had wanted to keep his heart he hadn’t realised that it might mean hurting Frodo.

“Sir, I don’t know what I can say or do to make this any easier but I didn’t want you to be hurt. You have to believe that.” Frodo stood very still, his back straight and his head turned slightly so that Sam could barely read his features in the dim light.

“Is it Rosie?” he said carefully after some time.

_Rosie?_ Sam frowned, watching as Frodo reached for the back of one of the sturdy wooden chairs, holding onto it as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“I know that you two are… close.”

Realising with a jolt what Frodo must be thinking, Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. His first impulse was to set the record straight and explain that his relationship with Rosie was purely platonic but he bit the words back before they had the chance to escape. After all why not? Rosie was as good a reason as any. And when it came down to it what other options did he have? Sam took a deep breath and faced his master, forcing himself to accept the inevitable end of his friendship with Frodo before it could cut either of them any deeper.

“Aye, sir, we are,” he said, his voice choked. Sam could feel the truth bubbling up inside him trying to force its way to the surface. Despite knowing that Frodo could never return his feelings and knowing that denial was his only option, he could not manage to quash the tiny grain of hope lingering underneath all the thick layers of doubt. Sam shook aside the notion and set about reinforcing his shield. “We mean the world to each other,” he whispered, his voice sounding hoarse and strained.

Frodo bowed his head and Sam felt him draw away, distancing himself and securing the boundaries between them. All this in a matter of moments and Sam knew with finality that the closeness between them had ended. Frodo stood, looking at him with eyes that were strangely cool but Sam had so recently known them to smoulder and he wondered how he was supposed to go on.

“I am happy for you, Sam.” Frodo gave him a brief business-like nod. “You may go now.”

Frodo managed somehow to remain upright until he heard the front door click decisively closed. After this there was nothing he could do to keep his legs from giving way or his body from slumping to the floor.

So this was love. Being sliced into pieces while still alive. Shredded from the inside out. Betrayed by every sense and every reason yet still having the capacity for thought. Painful.

Frodo sat, dry-eyed in the middle of the kitchen floor wondering, with some portion of his brain not completely enveloped by senselessness, what now?

He could see himself, jostling Sam into making his confession, explaining to Sam’s blushing face that flowers could speak louder than any words ever could, keeping back the fact that they had captivated him…

He could see himself, dressed in white linen smiling perfunctorily as he congratulated Sam with a vigorous handshake and a hearty pat, while Rosie stood by smiling. She would have flowers in her hair and sunshine in her eyes…

He could see himself, a painful smile upon his face as he edged closer to the crib to see a cherub face with a golden head and though he would ache he would lean a bit closer and try not to breathe for infants often smell sweeter than flowers…

And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…

For Frodo there would be crumbling castles woven with dreams and hopes and all things that withered. Trapped alone and wounded in empty hole in the ground that he had once believed was home. They say home is where your heart is. But if your heart was broken then where were you supposed live?

Jasmine’s garden was always a simple yet cheerful affair and the small, bright blossoms winked and bobbed at him as he approached the door. Frodo stood on her doorstep a little anxious; unsure of why exactly he had come yet realising he had nowhere else to go. He’d have ridden out to Brandy Hall immediately if he could be sure that Merry were there but if he wasn’t then Frodo would have had to endure some painful coddling from his aunts and uncles before he was allowed to escape. Suffice to say, Frodo wasn’t up for that, not today.

Before Frodo could decide to knock, the door suddenly swung open and Jasmine appeared looking radiant in a dark blue waistcoat and loose linen trousers.

“Frodo!” she said in some surprise. “How lovely to see you.”

Frodo gave her a weak smile. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Come in.” Jasmine led him through the smial and into her sitting room. A cosy but comfortable affair, surprisingly masculine, considering the customary purpose of the room was as a space for the lady of the smial to entertain her intimate acquaintances.

“It’s been a while hasn’t it,” Jasmine said, dropping into a large leather armchair. “You haven’t been by since the start of summer. I was beginning to worry.”

“My door is always open to you, Jasmine, anytime you wish to call.”

Jasmine drew in a breath of mock horror. “A married woman visiting a known bachelor? In Hobbiton?! Such a thing would never be heard of.” Her laugh was rich and melodious. Frodo had almost forgotten how she filled a room with her vibrancy.

“I should have come but a little bird told me that I may be an unwelcome intrusion. Your Aunt in fact, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins. I make a point of meeting her infrequently to catch up on all the local gossip.” Jasmine sank further back into the armchair and her eyes sparkled wickedly. “She told me that you’ve been wondering about your garden ‘dressed in dogs clothes and cavorting in an unnatural manner with your servant’.” Laughing a little, Jasmine surveyed him intently. “So I put one and one together and got two and decided I should leave well enough alone and see how long it took you to get from cavorting in an unnatural manner, to cavorting in a very natural and very rhythmical manner, preferably in a bed but there is a lot to be said for the garden.”

Frodo tried to blink back his tears but they began to roll down his face in hot streams. Jasmine came quickly to his side, kneeling and taking his hand. “Oh, Frodo,” she said in some concern. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing… it’s nothing,” Frodo said, cursing himself for his lack of restraint. “It’s just that he…” Frodo gulped in a lung full of air trying hard to remain in control. “He doesn’t want me,” he managed to whisper, pulling his hand from Jasmine’s grasp and wiping his tears on the back of his sleeves. Jasmine’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

“But I thought…” She trailed off, her face still wearing a puzzled expression. “Nevermind. This looks to me like it will be one of the lengthier versions of the ‘I love him but he doesn’t love me’ tales.” Sighing, Jasmine stood, patting Frodo’s curls absently as she did so. “Let me get my pipe and a bottle of wine and we can discuss it like decently drunk Hobbits. Besides…” Jasmine’s voice trailed her as she departed from the room, “if its one thing I know, a nasty hangover does a neat job in distracting one from the immediacy of emotional pain.”

The two hobbits were pleasantly intoxicated by the time Frodo had finished with his tale. The air in the smial was thick with the smoke from their combined pipes. Frodo was feeling thoroughly ill. He suspected that he had smoked more pipe weed in the last few hours than he had smoked in the entire year. Reaching out a confoundingly unsteady arm (now when had he gone from slightly tipsy to not able to stand up?), Frodo pointed his pipe accusingly at Jasmine.

“You,” his words were bizarrely slurred and he found that speech was presently requiring a lot more concentration than it usually did. “…are a bad infl… influence on me, Jasmine. Bilbo was right. Damn him.”

“And you were always far too good at displacing your own guilt, Frodo Baggins.”  
Frodo stolidly ignored her. “But I never paid him any mind. At least, until I got myself burnt.” Frodo blinked at her but his expression was free of bitterness. “I loved you once… for a time.”

Jasmine smiled a little. “Frodo what we had… what we _have_ is not without love, nor will it ever be, but it is not love.” She rearranged her limbs in the chair in order to get more comfortable. “But we have had this talk before. Do you remember?”

Frodo closed his eyes and was transported back to a rainy day. It was years ago that he had known this bed, that he had known these arms that held him, but the memory was clear and suffused his mind like a dream. All night the rain had come, lapping at the window in gentle waves, and in the morning they lazily made love in its rhythms.

It was cold out, but the bed was warm so they snuggled in, deciding to stay in bed the whole day, simply because they could. At the time Frodo could not conceive of anything more perfect than long, slow kisses in the morning after a hot, passion-filled night. Putting his arms around Jasmine and pulling her close he whispered almost instinctively in her ear, three words one must never speak to a hobbit that is not free.  
  
“I love you.”

Jasmine had stiffened and pulled away, looking at him with a slight frown on her face.

“No you don’t.” Her frown deepened as she continued. “Well, yes, I suppose you do. But not in the way that you think you do.” Jasmine reached for her pipe, a slight crease marring her brow as she filled it.

Frodo sat up and looked at her, a little peevish. “How do you know that I am not in love with you?”

Jasmine snorted as she lit her pipe. “Because you have not yet tried to gouge out my eyes, or my husband’s for that matter, though heaven knows I’ve given you enough cause.” Taking a puff of her pipe, she relaxed back into the pillows, pulling Frodo to her until he was nestled comfortably against her chest. He loved to hear the rhythm of her breathing and the steady pulse of her heart as she spoke.

“Listen carefully to me, Frodo, for I have a feeling that you are in need of this wisdom more than others I have known.” Frodo traced patterns on Jasmine’s pale stomach, only paying polite attention to what she was trying to say.

“Sex is just sex: it’s fun, fast, furious and lusty, like being caught in a summer storm after a perfectly clear day.” Jasmine took a long drag on her pipe, then breathed out slowly. Frodo watched the smoke as it curled, gently dissipating as it rose. “But love – ah – love _burns_.” There was a pause before Jasmine spoke again and Frodo felt her fingers brush his cheek lightly, gathering a curl and winding it absently. When she spoke again her voice was soft and Frodo could tell she was far away, in another’s arms and perhaps in a different bed, echoing a longing that she had oft fought to erase. “I sincerely hope, Frodo Baggins, that love never finds you.”

The smoke coalesced as Frodo’s mind reentered the present, and he realised how little he had understood of love. Those immature pangs of desire in his tweenage years, the passionate love-making and ardour in his relationship with Jasmine, none of it meant anything compared to this.

“What will I do, Jasmine?” Frodo murmured dejectedly into his cup before downing its contents. Jasmine watched him with a worried crease between her brows.

“Well, judging from what you’ve told me and the way you’re guzzling that wine I’d say this is the real thing. Which means you will have a few hard decisions before you, my lad.” She raised her pipe to her lips and drew in a puff of smoke before blowing it out slowly. “For instance, you may want to think about letting him go. It would be a loss; Sam is a marvel in the gardens. But that means all the hobbit gentry from here to Tuckborough will be clamouring – ”

“No!” Frodo cut in, spilling wine down his waistcoat in his emphatic drunken gesture. “I would never do that to Sam. The gardens are his… his…” He searched in vain for the right words. “His. I couldn’t take them away.”

“Oh? Tell me, Frodo. How long do you think you will fare alone in that endless burrow, knowing that Sam is the first thing you see in the morning and the last person you speak to at night? But while you pine for him, he will be weaving his own life and you will be able to do nothing but sit by and watch. You are strong Frodo but could you really endure that?”

Frodo’s face must have been a picture of misery as Jasmine sighed and set aside her pipe. “Come, Frodo, let’s put you to bed. It’s obvious you haven’t slept a wink in the last two days and the wine is probably not helping matters.” Frodo looked up at her through his hazy vision, as she gently but firmly removed the wineglass from his hand and maneuvered him to his feet.

“Am I sleeping in your room?” he said, as he stumbled to his feet and was forced to lean on Jasmine for support. It appeared that his vision wasn’t the only part of him having difficulty.

“Goodness, no!” exclaimed Jasmine. “That would be the last thing either of us needs.”  
  
Sam had tried to force himself to keep his mind on at least a dozen odd jobs that needed seeing to but had not been able to manage it. He had attempted every trick that he knew of to get his mind to focus on the task but none had worked. And truth be told, in the history of his recollection, this had never happened to him before. For Sam, work had _always_ enabled him to establish a sort of pensive peace. It helped him to think through his problems or rest them aside. Until now.

Unable to work, or think, Sam gave up, throwing down his tools and wondering into the smial. Somehow, he ended up in Frodo’s bedroom staring at the bed. It was unmade and the sheets were rumpled. Sam’s brow creased in thought. He did not often have cause to enter Frodo’s bedroom but he knew his master to be a tidy person. On every previous occasion, the bed he was currently staring at was straightened to a fault, with the sheets neatly tucked into the sides.  
  
Sam sat down, a little alarmed at his own behaviour. He had never sat on Frodo’s bed before. What if Frodo were to come home, unexpectedly, and catch him there? Well, Sam shrugged it off; things between them could hardly be any worse.

He could smell Frodo here. Sam turned and buried his nose into the pillows and blankets, breathing in Frodo’s nuanced scent. He knew that he shouldn’t be here, that his actions were beyond improper and heading straight into illegal. But even if a portion of Sam’s mind cared about the fact, his body certainly didn’t and he stretched out, curling around a bunch of the fragrant pillows, steadfastly ignoring the little voice screaming at him to leave before it was too late.

As he closed his eyes he could almost believe that Frodo was here beside him. Touching him, tasting him, filling him. And Sam would be lost. Lost as Frodo re-imagined him, shaping him anew with sensitive hands. Frodo would play him, pray him into existence. Consuming him until Sam could not be read, could not read himself, without Frodo. Frodo would be his key, his guiding star, his beacon. His dance would be timed to every pulse, movement, rhythm of Frodo’s and it would ever draw him onward.

And Sam was afraid, very afraid, that it already did.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry likes Frodo. Sam likes Frodo. Frodo just likes lasses. A typical Sam/Frodo slash. Angst, romance, and humour; all present and accounted for.

Frodo did not return home before Sam left for the day. Sam did not see him again until half way through the following morning. As he entered the smial he saw that the blinds to the master bedroom were closed. He moved quietly to the kitchen hoping not to wake Frodo if he was still asleep. Much to his disappointment he could smell toast as he neared the kitchen. As expected there was a familiar figure breakfasting at the table but to Sam’s surprise it was not Frodo.

“Mr. Merry!” he could not help but exclaim as he recognised the cheeky face, presently covered with splotches of jam.

“Sam!” Merry said as he looked up from his pile of toast, all covered in an assortment of jams. “Come. Join me for breakfast. I couldn’t decide what I wanted so I’m having them all.” He indicated the various jars with a jam-smeared nose. “Look. There’s blackberry and strawberry and over there I’ve got some blueberry and – ”

“I know, I know, they’re Mr. Frodo’s winter supplies,” Sam shot out before he’d had the chance to think.

Merry’s eyes widened and he looked suitably ashamed. “Oh. I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t know – ”

“Oh, no, it don’t matter, sir. I’ve got plenty of stock set aside for the winter. You go ahead an’ eat that.”

Merry’s eyes flicked longingly to his plate and then back to Sam. “Are you sure?”

Sam forced himself to smile. “Well, it’d be a waste if you didn’t finish them now, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Merry grabbed a half-finished slice and began to shovel it down a couple of times faster than even normal Brandybuck speed. Sam wondered how he didn’t choke.

His brow creased slightly as he busied himself tidying the mess that Merry had managed to create. What was Merry doing here anyway? He was meant to be in Buckland chasing other lads, not here in Hobbiton chasing _his_ Frodo.

“When did you arrive, Mr. Merry?” Sam asked, trying to keep his voice friendly.

“Last night,” Merry mumbled between mouthfuls. “Frodo sent for me a couple of days ago. Can’t figure out why though. Maybe he missed my youthful charm and my good looks.” Merry stopped eating suddenly and turned to him with a brow raised. “Did you?”

Sam frowned, wondering what he was talking about. He was too troubled by Frodo’s quick invitation to Merry to listen to Merry’s babble.

“What?”

“Did you miss me?” Casting a frustrated and confused glance at Merry, Sam noticed that his eyes were glistening and that he had moved to stand a lot closer to him than what Sam felt entirely comfortable with. Luckily Merry didn’t wait for an answer for Sam had none to give.

“Oh, come now.” Merry’s voice, which had, up until this point, been light and casual, suddenly dropped to a low, sultry murmur. “Don’t tell me you’ve never even given it a thought. You, me a bottle of wine and some candlesticks. I could make you moan and you co– Good morning, Frodo. How are we today?”

Sam turned, knowing without a doubt that his face was beetroot red and his pulse was racing with shock. Sure enough Frodo was standing in the doorway, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Frodo glanced at Sam but looked though him rather than at him before resting his eyes on Merry. Who knows what he may have read from the picture the two of them presented.

“Morning, Merry. I am well, though I do not feel up to breakfast this morning.” Covering his mouth, he yawned again. “I’ll take some tea in my study, Sam,” he said, in a toneless voice before exiting the room.

Merry frowned as Frodo left and Sam discreetly put some distance between them, hoping against hope that Merry did not see fit to continue his blatant advances. To his relief Frodo’s appearance seemed to have driven all of Merry’s amorous intentions from his mind.

“Does Frodo seem a little strange to you, Sam?”

“Don’t know what you mean, sir.” Sam was busily washing the breakfast dishes while the water boiled.

“Well, he’s kind of acting like he’s fine. ‘Acting’ being the operative word.” Picking up a remnant slice of toast, Merry paused and began to chew it thoughtfully. “And then there’s the way he just treated you. In the past he would have made his own tea and kept you company while you tidied up.” Merry turned to Sam with a quizzical expression. “How long has he been like this?”

Sam shrugged. “To my mind if a person’s acting fine, he is fine. And about the other, well, it may have slipped your notice, sir, but I _am_ a servant and he is my master. However friendly we may be, whenever he gives and order, I _can’t_ mind none and he _shouldn’t_ mind none, an’ that’s all there is.”

Trying desperately to keep his hands from trembling, Sam arranged the tea things onto a tray. His eyes began to well treacherously and he turned away from Merry hoping to hide his tears.

“No, I don’t think that’s it, Sam. He has never been one for all that propriety stuffiness. He has never seen a servant as being just a servant.”

Fighting unsuccessfully to quell the tears rolling liberally down his cheeks to the tray below, Sam clenched his jaw and straightened his shoulders, wiping his face roughly with his sleeves. “Well maybe he should have,” he said tightly, picking up the tray and walking into the hall.

Merry gazed in some concern after Sam’s retreating figure. Something serious was going on and Merry hadn’t the slightest clue as to what it could be. Sam had been crying, Merry was almost sure of it, and since they had been talking of Frodo at the time he could only conclude that he was the most likely cause. But why should Frodo cause Sam so much grief? The two of them were more than amiable and neither had ever betrayed resentment of the other, which in Merry’s experience, was the norm of most master/servant relationships.

Standing abruptly, Merry vowed to get to the bottom of this entanglement and give Frodo a good hiding for upsetting his beautiful gardener. He snuck through the smial quietly, pausing outside the study door: out of sight but still able to hear what was said inside the room.

“…and after you have seen to the window boxes, I’d like you to– Sam! Is there toast on that tea tray?” Merry’s ears caught Frodo’s voice easily, as his tone was sharper than he had ever heard it before. Even sharper than the time he’d caught Merry and that Boffin lad doing inappropriate things in his pantry.

“Yes, sir,” came Sam’s humble reply.

Frodo made an impatient noise in his throat. “I specifically told you that I was not hungry.”

“I know, sir and I’m sorry. But you ought to eat something.”

“Oh? I may be mistaken but I do not think it is your place to tell me what I ought to be doing,” Frodo said, delivering the words in a cold and emotionless tone.

“No it isn’t, I mean it ain’t… but– ”

“Then I suggest that you take that plate back to the kitchen and that in the future you might consider paying closer attention to my orders.”

Merry held his breath in shock. How could Frodo speak to Sam like that? Frodo, who had trouble even defining the word order and even greater trouble in its application.

This time Sam’s “yes, sir,” was delivered in a softer voice but with a definite flavour of stubbornness that Merry was used to hearing outright and not veiled behind an insipid platitude.

Merry ducked into a nearby hall as Sam departed so that he was spared the embarrassment of knowing that Merry had overheard. Waiting until he could no longer hear Sam’s footsteps, Merry slipped out of the hall and into Frodo’s study.

“What in Middle-Earth was that all about, Frodo Baggins?”

Frodo looked up from his papers as Merry stormed into the room angrier than one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs. Frodo glanced back down at his papers dismissively. “A misunderstanding, that is all.”

Merry gaped at him. “A misunderstanding? Do you treat all your friends like that over such trivial matters?”

Frodo gave him a sharp look before standing and moving to the window. “Sam is not a friend, he is my gardener and as such– ”

“Nonsense, you’ve never believed that and you never will so don’t try to fool me with any of that rubbish.” Merry moved closer to Frodo in order to see his eyes which were fixed on some distant point out the window. “Before I left you were hoping to find a friend in Sam and now you are barely civil to each other. What has happened between you two?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Frodo replied softly, and Merry got the impression from Frodo’s haunted expression that he was answering more than one question.

“Oh? Let me tell you something, Frodo. Before Sam came in here to serve you your tea he was crying. All over the tray. Now, in my view, something that makes a hobbit cry is not nothing. So I ask again, what is going on?”

Frodo glanced at him impatiently. “This is none of your business, Merry.”

“No, it isn’t but you made it my business the minute you sent that letter to me in Buckland. Obviously you invited me here because something is up and I think you are obliged to tell me what it is.”

Frodo simply stood there, in silence, still gazing unblinking out the window.

“Well?”

Frodo’s shoulders were stiff with anger but Merry couldn’t read his eyes.

“I don’t know what to tell you Merry other than the truth. Sam is my servant and I have the righ– ”

“You had no right to treat him as you did, servant or no,” Merry cut in abruptly, furious at Frodo’s behaviour. “Sam has done more for you than any other hobbit I can think of. I doubt you would have coped very well in Bilbo’s absence without him and besides, Sam trusts you Frodo.”

“I know,” Frodo’s voice was suddenly very soft and his shoulders slumped forward. Merry moved forward quickly, putting his arm around Frodo, instantly concerned.

“Frodo, please tell me what is wrong.”

Frodo leant into Merry’s arms. “I’ll have to let him go.”

“Sam? Why?”

Taking a deep breath Frodo steadied his voice. “Because having him here is killing me.”

Merry pushed Frodo firmly into the window seat and knelt beside him. Frodo continued to avoid his eyes, choosing to stare down at the carpet instead. Taking Frodo’s hand, Merry squeezed it gently, trying to offer comfort despite being more than a little perplexed as to why it was needed.

“You don’t like his gardening?” he ventured, in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

Frodo didn’t respond other than to tighten his grip on Merry’s hand.

“Alright,” Merry said soothingly, running his thumb over the back of Frodo’s hand. “Why do you want Sam to leave?”

Frodo shut his eyes. After a moment he reopened them and Merry could see the shadows darken his gaze.

“I don’t want him to leave,” Frodo whispered and Merry had to strain to hear him. “I wanted him to stay.”

Reaching up, Merry stroked Frodo’s face tenderly. “Frodo, love, you’re not making any sense.”

Frodo blinked at Merry, as if he were seeing him for the first time. “I’m not?” he said, frowning a little. “No, I suppose I’m not.” Pulling his hand from Merry, Frodo rested his face in his palms. “I love him, you see. And that doesn’t make much sense either.”

Merry sighed and sagged against the door as he closed it. It had been a long day. Frodo was a mess and the situation between him and Sam had deteriorated rapidly. While Frodo was cold and cruel, Sam had turned into a wooden replica of himself and neither of them paid much attention to Merry. Frodo gave orders in short sharp sentences and Sam retreated into his shell, remaining completely impassive in the face of his mistreatment.

Merry knew that Frodo was bleeding on the inside and Sam had to feel _something_ from being subjected to Frodo’s constant hostility. But from the way Sam was acting Merry doubted whether he felt anything. Surely he could see that Frodo was in pain. How could Sam let Frodo go on like this without giving him an explanation of his actions?

Pulling off his shirt and trousers, Merry moved from the door to the dresser and began to wash himself at the basin. As he scrubbed the wet cloth over his face, Merry resolved to get to the bottom of this situation before it got out of hand. Frodo was stubbornly independent and very good at putting on a brave public face but this time even Merry could see that Frodo was struggling. And Sam was the key. Perhaps if Merry could figure out why Sam did not reciprocate Frodo’s feelings he would be able to help Frodo through whatever hurt he was attempting to deal with.

Sinking into the bed after changing into his nightshirt, Merry pulled a pillow towards him and wrapped his arms around it.

It wouldn’t be easy. Merry loved his cousin. In truth, Merry loved him a little more deeply than he cared to admit, but he was not about to let that cloud his judgement. Frodo was desperately unhappy and Merry could only see one way of fixing it. Unfortunately, if Merry succeeded he would lose a large part of his closest friend and it was the very part that Merry had often wished would someday be his.

Merry sighed and buried his face into the pillow. _What a mess_.

It was late in the morning before Merry rose. He stumbled sleepily from the spare room into the kitchen, finding Sam busily preparing a whole host of concoctions.

“Good morning, Sam,” Merry said, looking around at the mess of trays, all covered with delicacies in different states of readiness. It smelt delicious and Merry breathed deeply, drawing as much of the spiced air into his lungs as he could.

Setting a steaming tray of muffins onto the bench, Sam wiped his floury hands with a towel before turning to Merry.

“Morning, sir. Sorry about the mess.”

Merry shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t mind me.”

“Mr. Frodo asked me to tell you that he had some business to attend to in Bywater but he’d be back this afternoon. He said the you were welcome to make yourself at home.”

“Thank-you, Sam.” Sam turned his attention back to his cooking. Clearing a small area of the kitchen table, Merry pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Would you like me to make you some tea, Mr. Merry?”

Merry thought quickly. “No, Sam.” He watched as Sam pushed a laden tray into the oven. “Actually, I’d like you to sit down. There is something I’d like to talk to you about.”

“But, sir…” Sam indicated the kitchen in its current state of disarray. “I’m rather busy just now. Can it wait until I’ve finished?”

Prying a muffin loose from a tray in front of him, Merry purposefully avoided looking Sam in the eye. “No I’m afraid it can’t, Sam. This is more important.”

Casting his eyes at the oven in a pointed way before looking back at Merry, Sam sat in obvious reluctance.

Picking absently at the muffin, Merry tried to figure out how to begin.  
  
“Sam, I’m sure you’ve noticed that Frodo is… well, he is not himself at the moment and I just wondered…” Merry broke off. This was harder than he had imagined. “Look, Frodo told me about what happened the other night and I just wondered how you feel about it.”

Sam merely shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t much matter how I feel about it. All I can tell you is what I told him: I can’t give him what he wants.”

“And what do you think it is that he wants?”

Through narrowed eyes, Sam looked up at him suspiciously. “Did Frodo put you up to this?”

Merry shook his head. “No.”

“Begging your pardon for sayin’ so, but I don’t see why you would concern yourself with my business.”

Merry took a bite out of the muffin and chewed it absently. “You’re right. Your feelings are not my business.” Sitting up straight, Merry deliberately emphasised his words. “But Frodo’s are. And right now the two of you are both concerning me.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Merry. Worry about Frodo if you must but don’t bother yourself about me.” The words were delivered casually enough but Merry knew that Sam was telling him quite firmly to keep out. Merry ignored him.

“Why did you run away that night, Sam?”

Sam did not hesitate a moment before standing and saying in a measured voice, “If you’ll excuse me sir, I really ought to get back to the baking.”

“No, you are not excused. Sit down and answer the question please.”

Sam sat back down, looking into his hands sullenly, remaining silent.

“Did you lead Frodo on, on purpose, or did you honestly not know what you were doing?”

“ _He_ kissed _me_!” Sam exploded, forgetting himself and his place in his anger.

“Yes, but you responded.”

“I didn’t mean to… he – ” Sam broke off his face flushed, refusing to say anymore.

“What? He took you by surprise? That’s not how he tells it and Frodo has never been one to lie.” Pausing, Merry tried to read the emotions as they rent their way across Sam’s face.

“Sam,” he said gently, “I don’t want to hurt you. I just need to understand your side of the story. I haven’t ever seen Frodo this upset and it’s scaring me.”

As Merry watched, Sam’s face resolved itself and became impassive.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve told you all I can.”

Merry blinked becoming rapidly annoyed. If compassion wouldn’t prompt Sam to reveal himself, Merry would be forced to use a more mercenary tactic.

“Do you wish to leave here, Sam? Leave Bag End, leave Frodo?”

Sam looked up at him sharply. “No, I never – ”

“Then I think I should tell you that Frodo is thinking about asking you to leave. He won’t kick you out and he’ll make sure you obtain a suitable – ”

Sam stood abruptly and nearly knocked over his chair with the force of his ascent. “Why? Because I refused his bed? But that’s… He can’t do that.”

“No, no. You don’t understand, Sam. Not because you rejected his bed, but because you rejected his heart.”

Sam paled a little at Merry’s words. “I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, but it’s true. Frodo loves you, Sam.”

This seemed to quieten Sam and he was silent for a long while before replying. “You can’t love someone while lying with another.”

“What do you mean?” Ignoring Merry’s question, Sam looked at him searchingly. “Has Frodo been with someone since Jasmine?”

Sam dropped his eyes back to the table. “I don’t know.”

Merry sighed. “Look, you have no real reason to trust me and I refuse to sit here trying to convince you. But I will say this, if Frodo only wanted to bed you, then why would he be acting like his world has been broken?”

Sam found himself working in the front gardens, keeping his ears pricked for any sound that could indicate Frodo’s return. Although he tried to keep his mind clear, Sam couldn’t help his eyes from straying far too regularly to the road.

He was resolved. Losing Bag End and Frodo along with it would be tantamount to losing himself. He would never let go without a fight. Where did Sam belong if not here?

Dropping everything the minute he saw Frodo approach, Sam stood, watching him as he made his way up the Hill, a tight feeling of dread wending its way around his heart. Whichever way this went, it was not going to be easy and Sam had far, far too much to lose.

“Afternoon, Sam.” Frodo nodded at him in a rather formal manner, addressing him stiffly, as if he couldn’t remember jostling in the mud barely a week ago, couldn’t remember the tangle of lips, skin, arms just three nights ago. But Sam did and he wished that he had the power to erase his memory as easily as Frodo seemed to.

Sam nodded. A lump in his throat appeared, frustrating his attempt to answer back.

“I shall not need your services this evening,” Frodo continued. “Once you have finished in the gardens you have leave to return home.”

Swallowing the lump, Sam bravely attempted speech.

“No, sir.”

Half-way through the smial door, Frodo turned back.

“Excuse me?”

Sam’s hands trembled slightly but he stood firm. Walking slowly up to Frodo he managed, through sheer strength of will, to meet his eyes.

“I need to talk to you, sir.”

Frodo blinked. “If it’s about the gardens or any other point of business, Sam, then it can wait until tomorrow.”

“It’s not about the gardens and – ”

“Then I cannot see how it would concern me.” Frodo turned stiffly and entered the smial, effectively cutting off Sam’s speech.

Sam refused to let this deter him and followed him stubbornly, ending up in the kitchen.

“It can’t wait until tomorrow,” Sam said determinedly in a soft voice that nevertheless sounded like a thrown gauntlet.

Eyes lit with restrained anger, Frodo turned to look at him and Sam felt the temperature in the room drop.

“Oh?”

Sam nearly packed up his courage and turned tail right then and there. “Mr. Frodo, why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” Frodo said in a dead voice.

“Like all your kindness has been milked dry and you only have coldness left.”

“Sam,” Frodo said coldly. “I am asking you as your master and as the owner of this smial to please leave now.”

Every fibre of Sam’s being, every muscle in his body went rigid with the need to obey that command. He fought with himself, beating down his notions of servility until his mouth began to function again. Lowering his voice, he spoke softly and urgently to Frodo. “Sir, I have never disobeyed you before and I do not want to now but I need to know, how have I hurt you?”

Frodo was openly angry now, he raised his voice. “Sam, if you don’t leave now I will – ”

“What? Sack me? It seems to me as if you’re already thinkin’ on that. What else have I got to lose that you aren’t already plannin’ on taking away?”

“I’ll not be interrogated in this manner in my own smial.”

“Well we’ve worked ourselves into a fine mess then cause I ain’t leavin’ till you talk to me.”

“Fine, if you won’t leave, I will.”

Frodo stormed into the entrance hall and wrenched a coat from the rack, a gesture that was more symbolic than necessary as the nights were not yet cold.

Sam let him go, cringing slightly as the door slammed closed and the harsh vibrations hummed through the smial.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry likes Frodo. Sam likes Frodo. Frodo just likes lasses. A typical Sam/Frodo slash. Angst, romance, and humour; all present and accounted for.

The hours passed by. Sam was true to his word. He wasn’t leaving until he and Frodo understood each other and he was prepared to wait as long as it took. Sam nodded vaguely when Merry came by and asked him to let Frodo know that he’d be at the Green Dragon and took himself off after a worried glance at Sam’s distracted appearance. He began to shiver when a wind started up outside. He was glad that Frodo had taken that coat.

But by midnight he was worried. Pacing up and down the entrance he began to imagine all the awful things that could have befallen his master. The irrational sense of fear took control of Sam’s mind and he realised that if anything had happened to Frodo it would be entirely his fault.

Getting increasingly agitated, Sam took himself to the sitting room and tried to calm down. Just as he was about to jump to his feet and launch himself from the smial in search of Frodo, he heard the front door click quietly open. He froze.

Sam never for the life of him figured out how Frodo did it but he honed in on Sam sitting in the darkened room.

“Do something useful and light the fire, Sam. I’m freezing.”

Keeping silent, Sam ignored the order.

“Sam!?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo, but no, I don’t think I will.”

Frodo muttered a string of violent curses under his breath and exited the room. When he returned his arms were full of neatly chopped firewood.

“You are here uninvited and after hours, Sam. That, as I’m sure you are fully aware, counts as trespassing.”

Sam was quickly discovering that Frodo’s tongue could be deadly when he was angry. Once Frodo had set the logs crackling, he grabbed an armchair and practically threw it in the direction of the fireplace. Sam jumped despite himself; he had never seen Frodo act so violently.

Frodo dumped himself into the armchair, far too close to the fire for Sam’s comfort but Sam knew that he’d given up the right to have a say in matters of Frodo’s safety.

“Well, Sam,” Frodo said, more than a little impatiently. “I’m here. That _is_ what you wanted, wasn’t it? It seems I’m having difficulty reading people lately.”

Sam closed his eyes, suddenly glad that Frodo was sitting with his back turned. It meant that Sam could not see his face, but neither could Frodo see his.

“Sir, I – ”

Frodo turned to him, giving Sam a flash of cold blue eyes. “Cut the sirs and Misters, Sam. If you had the least bit of respect for me you would not be here right now.”

“Alright,” Sam tasted his name in his mouth before speaking it, “Frodo, I just wanted to… to tell you…” Trailing off, Sam wondered whether he could risk a full confession, coming to the quick realisation that he would never know Frodo’s mind without revealing his own.

“Well, I must say that this has been a truly enlightening experience, Sam. Now if you don’t mind I’m rather tired and – ” Frodo began to rise from the armchair and Sam leapt up.

“No, Frodo, please, please don’t go. I just need to…You asked me the other day why… why I didn’t stay that night. And I wouldn’t answer, couldn’t answer not until… until now.”

Frodo paused, a small hitch in his voice giving lie to his cool, unfeeling tone. “Why?”

For the simplest and most complex of all reasons. “Because I love you, Frodo.”

There was a breathless moment of utter silence then Frodo’s shoulders sagged. “As a friend, yes I know,” he said, wearily. “But you want to make a life and a family with Rosie.”

“No. Oh no, Frodo. Even that I…” Sam paused, his voice tapering to a whisper. “Even that I want with you.”

A surreal moment and Sam felt as though he was falling through time.

“Then why…?”

Sinking back onto the sofa, Sam said quietly, “Because your mouth and hands touched more than my body, Frodo. You offered me your bed but you never offered me…” Frodo sat up straighter and Sam could tell from the rigidity of his back that he was paying complete attention to Sam’s words. Cautiously, Sam held his breath and allowed himself to hope. “…your heart.”

“Oh.”

“Then, not three days later Mr. Merry waltzes in and you’re dancin’ with him and how am I suppose to deal with – ” Unable to stop himself, Sam began to weep.

“Oh, you didn’t think…”

Through eyes blurred with tears, Sam saw Frodo move quickly to kneel in front of him. Sam looked into his lap, afraid of what he might read in those eyes.

“Sam, Merry and I have never been more than friends.”

“Sam,” came Frodo’s soft voice. “Look at me.” Sam blinked and raised his head, looking into eyes that had been ice cold moments ago and were now warm, rich pools.

“This….” Frodo insinuated his hand into Sam shirt, sliding it up slowly until he reached the left side of Sam’s chest. He pressed his palm flat against Sam’s heart. “Is what I want from you.”

“And this…” Not once lifting his eyes from Sam’s, Frodo half stood, then, moving cautiously, straddled his hips. His heart hammering forcefully against Frodo’s palm, Sam felt gentle fingers encircle his wrist. Sam’s eyes widened as his hand was guided into Frodo’s shirt, whispering against smooth skin until it came to rest above Frodo’s similarly rapid pulse.

Leaning forward into Sam, Frodo whispered, huskily, “is what you have already stolen from me, my dear Sam.”

And Sam saw all his dreams reflected at that moment in Frodo’s eyes.

“Oh, Frodo,” Sam whispered as tears flowed freely down his cheeks.

Leaning his forehead against Sam’s, Frodo extricated a hand and ran it soothingly down the side of Sam’s face, crooning softly, “Shh, Sam, don’t cry.”

Sam wrapped his arms around Frodo and held him tight, not wanting the slightest bit of separation. It wasn’t until Frodo shifted and gave a muffled laugh that Sam realised he might be clinging a little too tightly.

“Sam,” came Frodo’s amused voice. “I do still need to breathe, you know.”

Loosening his grip, Sam let Frodo move, watching as those beautiful features assembled themselves in his vision, just inches away.

Frodo’s eyes were serious but he wore a small smile as his hand tentatively touched Sam’s cheek. “Whyever didn’t you tell me? Did you think that I would want this…” Frodo brushed soft lips against his and Sam forgot to breathe for a long moment until Frodo pulled back and took a shuddering breath. “…and not want this…” Frodo caressed his temple. “…or this?” He smoothed gentle fingers across Sam’s breast.

Closing his eyes, Sam attempted to take stock of this strange, new situation. It was impossible. That Frodo should be here pressed against him, whispering these words. Sam could only believe it when he opened his eyes.

Sam captured Frodo’s hands and brought them to his lips. “How could I ask for this? My hands were meant for mucking in mud not to ache for the likes of you. You, who were born to walk among clouds and starlight and me with my feet on the earth.”

Frodo shook his head, an earnest crease forming on his brow. “Sam, the sorcery you wield is one that far surpasses my own. The tunes you play with the seasons and the subtle magics you spin in the gardens have constantly amazed and enchanted me. I wish that there was some way I could show you.”

Letting Frodo’s hands loose, Sam cupped Frodo’s face in his palm. “You have. You are.”

Frodo covered Sam’s hand with his own and pressed a kiss into his palm. “I love you, Sam.”

Sam drew a shaky breath at the intensity of Frodo’s eyes. Oh, and he had thought they burned him before.

Pulling Frodo to him, Sam began to shower him with feather light kisses, relishing the feel of that soft skin beneath his lips. Frodo laughed and struggled ineffectually in Sam’s arms in mock protest at this treatment, stilling abruptly as Sam moved his attention to Frodo’s mouth and ran his tongue slowly and deliberately across his lower lip.

Moaning softly, Frodo shivered and eased away a fraction. Sam tried to draw him back but Frodo placed his fingertips to Sam’s lips, arresting movement.

“If I kiss you now, you must promise not to run away again.”

Sam kissed each of Frodo’s fingers in turn. “I promise.”

This time Frodo pulled Sam to him, glancing warm lips gently across his. And while Sam had no objections to the way Frodo’s mouth moved inexorably against him, he did, however, object to how long he was taking. Sam buried a hand firmly into the hair at the nape of Frodo’s neck and lifted his mouth to Frodo’s. Holding Frodo to him, he began to slowly explore those lips, coaxing them open with a persuasive tongue. Frodo’s breath hitched a little and he responded, his lips opening on Sam’s, his tongue darting out to fill Sam’s mouth with sweetness.

Tasting each other, they spent a long glorious time forgetting that the outside world existed, forgetting all but the luscious feel of softness and warmth.

Sam leaned away and drew a deep breath, wondering if his heart rate would ever return to normal.

But Frodo was impatient now and he leant back to reclaim Sam’s mouth, his lips hungry and insistent. Too soon, Frodo’s mouth left his and Sam uttered an inarticulate protest just as that wonderful mouth began to investigate other places, the hollows in Sam’s neck, the line of his jaw, the sensitive skin beneath his ear.

Frodo’s lips were rapidly impeding every rational thought, and deft hands moved to touch his body, ensnaring every one of his senses along the way and Sam’s whole body began to sing with the definite need to push, to press, to have Frodo closer. Suddenly Sam was struggling not to lose control, struggling to keep himself in check but he couldn’t; not with Frodo’s hands in his hair, not with that slender body moving on him, into him.  
  
Sam grabbed at Frodo’s body, his hands twisting into Frodo’s shirt and drawing him closer, tighter. Frodo squirmed against him with a cry and Sam let out a low moan, pushing up hard. This was more than enough for Sam, but Frodo had other ideas and broke away, pulling himself from Sam’s grasp.

“Sam!”

Sam clung to him, trying frantically to maintain contact. “Don’t stop. Please, Frodo.”

Frodo made a strangled noise as Sam pressed heated lips into the hollow of his neck by means of persuasion. “Ngh… Sam! I…” Frodo pushed away and looked at Sam with eyes that made his heart still. “I can’t breathe when you do that.”

Encouraged by the husky note in Frodo’s voice, Sam moved back to nuzzle at his neck. “So?”

“Sam!” Frodo batted at him ineffectually. “I have every intention of continuing this. Just…” Frodo looked purposefully around the room, “…not here.”

“Oh.” Refocusing, Sam realised that he was in the sitting room and that the sofa beneath him was probably not the most comfortable place to be doing this.

Untangling his legs from around Sam, Frodo rose unsteadily to his feet. He suddenly looked shy and more than a little nervous.

“Would you… would you like to stay tonight, Sam?”

At that moment, the only thing preventing Sam from launching to his feet and knocking Frodo off his was the fact that he wasn’t quite sure his legs were working. He took Frodo’s hand instead.

“Just try and stop me, Frodo.”

“Are we…?”

Frodo stopped and turned as Sam’s hand slipped from his grasp. Sam’s eyes were focused on the bed and he looked a little confused.

“Sam?”

Sam appeared to pull himself from his thoughts, centering a small frown at Frodo. “Should I fetch some wood and set the fire?”

The short distance between the sitting room and Frodo’s bedroom seemed to have called into question all that had been perfectly clear only moments ago. Frodo breathed deeply, uncertainties seemed to attack him from every direction and a glance at Sam showed that he felt it too.

“No, Sam, I don’t appear to be cold anymore.” He gave a small smile trying to break the tension that had settled into the room. He could still taste Sam on his lips and Sam’s words were still playing in his ears but the yard or so between them had somehow widened into a gulf that seemed almost impassable.

Turning away, Frodo lit a candle on the mantelpiece, buying a few brief moments to clear his head. Sam was still standing awkwardly in the doorway when he turned back.

“Sam, have you… I mean ever been… _with_ someone, like this?”

“No.” Sam’s eyes were on Frodo but his mind seemed to be elsewhere. “Oh, aye I’ve tumbled a few lads, but never…” Sam’s eyes returned to the bed. “…not like this.”

“Oh.” Frodo turned slightly, his eyes catching for a moment on the dancing flicker of candlelight. “I’ve never… well, not with a lad.”

“Oh.”

Looking back, Frodo forced himself to meet Sam’s eyes. “Sam do you want to? Be here, I mean.”

“I… _yes_ , I want to, Frodo. I just…” Sam faltered. “Do you want me to be?

“Oh, yes.”

Sam still lingered in the doorway and Frodo felt as though the tenuous bond between them was slowly disintegrating and all he could do was watch in dismay as it vanished.

Stepping forward, Frodo said almost desperately, “Sam, we don’t have to…”

“It’s alright, Frodo. It’s just… I never imagined that I would ever…” Frodo breathed a silent sigh of relief as Sam stepped bravely into the room. “…be here…” Sam reached out and placed a hand on Frodo’s arm, running the touch down until he held Frodo’s hand. “…with you…” A gentle tug and Frodo moved towards him. …like this.”

Frodo sighed, offering a silent prayer of thanks to whatever forces were responsible for this delicate moment in time. He placed a soft kiss to Sam’s lips. “All the same, maybe we should wait. We’ve said so much tonight and so much has changed.” Wrapping Sam into his arms, Frodo leaned his head on that strong shoulder. “What if you or I regret this in the morning? It is not something that can be undone.”

Sam let his fingers loose in Frodo’s hair and he shivered as they burnt rivers down to the nape of his neck.

“Mm,” Sam replied. “I don’t think either of us quite knows his place anymore. Or the lines that ought to be spoken.”

“Yes.” Frodo tilted his head in order to see Sam’s face. “And perhaps we should, before we, well…”

Frodo drew Sam’s lips with his fingertips then moved them lower, tracing the path that he had hewn only minutes ago with his own lips.

“Mayhaps we should,” Sam said, his voice wavering as Frodo’s thumb ran under his jaw.

“But, stay with me tonight, Sam. We can just sleep together. That is, if you wish to.” Looking searchingly into Sam’s face, Frodo held his breath, hoping against hope that  
Sam’s answer would be yes. But Sam did not respond with words.

Instead he pulled Frodo to him for a kiss that seared through his veins and down his spine and it wasn’t in Frodo’s power to stop himself from tightening his hold on Sam and demanding more.

Breathing heavily as they eventually surfaced, Frodo saw the look on Sam’s face and stilled. Dark eyes, heavy-lidded and framed with thick lashes, cheeks, flushed and warm, like the bloom of a new rose and, oh, there was no way that he could take this creature to bed and not… and not, touch him in all the places that could draw a moan or a sigh, taste him until he had taken his fill, tease him until they were both beyond endurance.

“Shall we change?” Sam’s voice rumbled low and his eyes were on fire and Frodo needed several gulps of air before he could reply.

“Change?”

“Into our nightshirts.” Reaching for Frodo’s buttons Sam began to work them open, keeping his heated eyes fixed on Frodo’s.

Frodo’s mind reeled. _Who was seducing who here?_

And as Sam’s hands moved lower.

_Does it matter?_

And as Sam tugged Frodo’s shirt from his shoulders.

_Oh, no_.

As Sam began to taste the salt of his throat, Frodo pushed his hands inside Sam’s shirt, reading the feel of hard muscle and soft skin.

Sam groaned and his hands ran down Frodo’s back easing into the back of his pants and pulling their hips together. With that mouth doing languid things at his throat and those hands at his back grinding him slowly against Sam’s solid body, Frodo was finding it somewhat difficult to remain standing. He groaned and pulled away, guiding Sam over towards the bed and pushing him onto it.

Frodo busied himself with removing Sam’s shirt, wanting to see the flesh that his hands had sampled just moments ago but Sam stopped him, grabbing his hands and drawing back to rake hungry eyes over his body. Frodo swallowed, trying to keep himself from melting under that heated gaze.

“Oh, Frodo, you are so…” Sam was unable to finish but his eyes said it all.

“So are you, Sam.” Frodo ran his palm down Sam’s face, and opaque eyes burnt directly into his.

“Let me show you…” He continued to open Sam’s shirt, easing between Sam’s legs. “…how it feels…” Neglecting to undo the cuffs, Frodo pushed the shirt off well-defined muscle and down smooth arms and allowed it to tangle behind Sam’s back. “… when you look at me like that.”

Frodo couldn’t count the number of times that he had dreamt of this moment. The last few weeks of wanting, needing, aching seemed to well up inside him and was culminating now, linking all of his senses to the feel of the hobbit beneath him. Frodo lowered his head and touched his lips reverently against an eartip.

It was only after Frodo’s mouth left off the teasing nips and bites at his throat and moved down the fine bone at his collar, to lick long and sensuously at a dark patch of flesh, that Sam stiffened in realisation. Frodo smiled as he heard the low moan and felt Sam writhe beneath him.

“Frodo, I…” A deep breath, another low moan as Frodo’s hands moved lower and began to work at Sam’s belt. “…I can’t touch you, like this, and I…” A gasp as Frodo’s hands found buttons and fumbled with them, moving his mouth further down and depositing feathery kisses among his ribs.

“Ngh, Frodo, you…”

“Shh… Sam,” Frodo whispered around a belly button, tugging at Sam’s pants and leaving them pooled somewhere at his feet. “Let me…” _Taste you_.

No dreams or imaginings could have ever prepared Frodo for the reality of having Sam beneath him, all unimaginably soft, honey-gold skin and taut muscle. Frodo allowed his eyes to feast as his mouth travelled lightly over Sam, teasing him to distraction with heated breath and ghosted kisses.

Losing himself somewhere between Sam’s legs, Frodo nipped playfully at Sam’s thighs as he cried out in distress, soft, throaty noises begging Frodo to move his attentions to somewhere in more desperate need. Frodo relented and moved up, his lips seeking the taste of salt and skin. Tentative kisses were rewarded with soft murmurs, little flutters of tongue and mouth, drawing pleading whimpers, and finally a wet open-mouthed exploration, and Frodo was forced to use most of his strength to keep Sam’s hips firmly pinned to the bed, as he writhed. Frodo let his lips, and the sound of Sam’s increasingly desperate cries, guide him, pulling Sam as deep as he could, moving slowly and rhythmically as Sam bucked his hips and wailed.

“Frodo, please, I’mgoingto… pleasedon’tstopdon’tstop _please_.”

Frodo gave a final flick of his tongue, moving his lips smoothly up Sam’s length.  
  
“Ngh, Frodo, you…” Sam panted, his face flushed, golden hair spilling into those beautiful dark eyes.

Frodo shifted back up, allowing his weight to settle everywhere but where Sam wanted it. “Shh, Sam, you were about to…”

Sam made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, still twisting to get the contact he desired. “I thought that was the point.”

“It is…” Frodo gave Sam a wicked smile. “…eventually.”

Frodo reached down to where Sam’s hands were still entangled and deftly undid the buttons, effectively releasing him from his bonds.

“Mmph…” Two strong hands burnt into his chest as Frodo was immediately tossed unceremoniously onto his back, warm lips muffling his startled cry. Sam’s kiss left him breathless and he gasped when Sam finally pulled away.

“I’ve had you in my dreams for as long as I can remember.” Soft hands stroked against his body and warm breath whispered against his skin. “Your skin, your lips, your mouth on mine, imagining the taste of you, your smell…” Sam buried his face into Frodo’s hair and breathed deeply. “… driving me mad with want and need; wondering what it would be like if only I could…” Deft hands at his waist brushing against him as they loosed buttons from their holes. “You say eventually but, oh, I’ve waited…”

Frodo closed his eyes and try not to sink too deep into the litany of words that were threatening to drown him.

“…waited with every breath you took from me…” Pants were hastily tugged loose and discarded. “…waited through every moan or sigh you gave to someone else and wishing, hoping, dreaming that one day…” Nimble fingers began to explore him, a soft touch along a thigh, fingertips run lightly over a jutting hipbone, and Frodo clamped his teeth down on his lip to keep from…

“I’ve ached for you, Frodo.”

…crying out in desperation as that hand found him, stroking lightly and drawing him out to the very edge of himself before…

“Ask anything of me, Frodo. Anything.”

…dragging him back down and dumping him back into his body with a downward stroke that left him shaking.

“But please, please don’t ask me to wait.”

Oh, it was exquisite and Frodo had no desire to ask for anything as long as that hand never, ever, ever stopped.

But it did not stop and Frodo was arching up and thrusting into that hand, unable to stop his fingers from digging deep into Sam’s skin and wailing. A delicious sense of vertigo and Frodo only just caught himself from falling through the bed, out of the smial, off the Hill; unbalanced, he clung to Sam in desperation to keep himself anchored.

And, oh, he was close, that glorious heat swirling inside him, Sam’s mouth on his throat, sucking and biting gently; but, just as he approached the edge, Sam pulled back slightly, his movement slowing, his mouth subsiding. Frodo thrust up hard, issuing a murmur of protest which turned abruptly into a cry of surprised indignation as his questing hips were pushed firmly back to the bed.

Frodo’s eyes flew open.

“Sam!”

“Shh… not yet.”

Frodo wasted no time, tangling his legs up in Sam’s and using it as leverage to roll Sam onto his back.

Sam blinked up at him, smiling softly and drawing a finger delicately up Frodo’s spine. “Impatient?”

Frodo expelled a shaky breath as Sam brought a hand to his lips and slowly pushed a finger deep into his mouth, then, pulling it out he trailed a wet path down his throat and across his chest; a glittering trail along tanned skin turned bronze by the candlelight. Frodo’s mouth went dry. He recognised a challenge when he saw one.

But with those smouldering eyes, glimmering in the flicker of flame, Frodo knew at once that he was beaten and he raised his lips to Sam’s, offering all of himself in the kiss.

The gesture was returned with equal fervour and strong arms wrapped about him to bring naked skin against naked skin in a shower of delicious sparks. Frodo eased between Sam’s legs moving slowly at first, pushing up against him in a tentative inquiry which was met with an unreserved moan of approval. From there it was all throbbing, pulsing want/need/desire as they pushed against each other, their cries and whimpers melting into the salt-moisture of skin.

And oh, it was beautiful. The pleasure building in blinding waves, carrying them both out to a sea of constant relentless sensation until they were clutching at each other and crying out and carrying each other through.

And everything, the sound of Sam’s wailing surrounding him, the taste of salt and sweat, the smell of earth and musk was intensified by the feel of that solid body beneath him, broad hands clenching on his shoulders as Sam drove up against him, matching every thrust.

It was too much, too much and no hobbit was ever meant to live through such exquisite pleasure; every sense was on fire and Frodo couldn’t think, couldn’t breath, could barely move from the acute ache of being almost…

Frodo wailed as the world imploded, coming hard and beautiful with Sam’s name on his lips and Sam’s hands in his hair… a heartbeat, a ragged breath and… Sam clear lifted off the bed, slamming into Frodo with almost bruising force, their cries intermingling and echoing through the smial.

A long blood-pounding moment later and all was still, Frodo slowly finding himself in the dual embrace of Sam’s arms and legs and relearning how to breath. Frodo drew air into his lungs, noting with a sort of absent interest that it was taking a while for his muscles to come back from wherever they had run off to and that in the future this might present a slight problem but right now, with Sam pressed against him everywhere that mattered, he didn’t care.

Eventually he managed a lazy roll, pulling Sam with him and tucking him securely into his arms. Sam moved willingly, pushing his face into the crook of Frodo’s neck and nuzzling softly.

“Sam?”

“Mmm?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to move for a week.”

A hand travelled smoothly up the length of his body and Frodo shuddered. “I don’t mind.” Sam’s low voice tickled against his neck and sent vibrations humming lightly through his body.

Frodo reached down and pulled Sam up for a slow, languid kiss, one that was somehow warmer and more intense than all of the hot, steamy kisses they had exchanged that night.

Pulling back a little, Frodo ran his eyes like a touch over Sam’s face. “I _do_ love you, Sam.” Frodo pushed a wisp of golden hair behind an ear. “Lying here in your arms, I feel like I’ve loved you forever.”

“I _have_ loved you forever,” Sam said in a choked voice and Frodo needed no further proof, drawing him close and rocking him gently, hoping to erase years of hurt and loneliness, hoping to someday deserve the gifts that Sam had given him.

“And I never knew. I’m sorry that I caused you so much pain.”

“It was my fault for wanting what I shouldn’t.” Sam nestled closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I never imagined that you would ever want the same.”

“I know that now,” Frodo soothed, hating himself and his world for how much it was costing Sam just to be in Frodo’s arms tonight. “It was foolish of me not to see why you had refused me. You still have so much to lose.”

“Shh, Frodo.” Sam moved and Frodo found himself fixed beneath Sam’s determined gaze. Strong, sure fingers threaded themselves into his. “There ain’t nothing I could lose that is worth more than this.”

“Really?” Frodo whispered, and oh, glory if Sam’s eyes could be any more intense then Frodo would surely go up in flames.

“Really. I’ll not say it’ll be easy but…” Sam reached up with his free hand and brushed a stray curl from Frodo’s face, “we’ll walk this road together and face whatever comes.”

Frodo squeezed Sam’s hand. “I mean to hold you to that, Sam.”

“I mean to hold to it, Frodo.”


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry likes Frodo. Sam likes Frodo. Frodo just likes lasses. A typical Sam/Frodo slash. Angst, romance, and humour; all present and accounted for.

“So, no interest in lads, eh, Frodo? I suppose you won’t mind me pointing out that Sam is one of the laddiest lads I’ve ever met and that there was no way you could possibly have mistaken him for a lass last night; no, not even with one candle and its guttering light, what with those baritone moans of his and you screaming his name at the top of your lungs.”

Frodo kissed Merry affectionately on the cheek. “Good morning to you too, Merry.”

“No, you’re not getting out of this one that easily Mr. I-only-like-lasses-so-don’t-bother-knocking-on-my-door-even-if-you-happen-to-be-my-really-hot-younger-cousin-who-has-bedded-plenty-of-lads-and-so-knows-exactly-what-to-do-and-how-to-do-it-and-wants-me-really-badly.”

Frodo blithely ignored Merry’s teasing and set to stocking the kitchen stove with wood. “Would you like egg on toast or would you prefer jam?”

“Frodo!” Merry exclaimed indignantly.

“Or mushrooms, they’re Sam’s favourite.”

Merry pouted. “Fine, if you won’t talk I’ll ask Sam.”

“You do that,” Frodo said distractedly. “Now where has that basket gone to?”

“I’ll ask him really embarrassing things like… like how long you lasted and… and what part of your body is the most sensitive… and how good it felt when you wrapped those beautiful pouty lips around his – ”

“It won’t work, Merry,” Frodo cut in mildly. “I’m not telling you a thing.”

Stamping his foot in exasperation, Merry deliberately put himself in Frodo’s path. “You can’t do this to me Frodo. I’ll never get to touch him now. Or you for that matter, so you owe it to me.”

Frodo gave him an amused glance and stepped around him locating the basket in the far corner of the kitchen. Without saying another word he scooped up the basket and headed for the door, steadfastly pursuing his quest for mushrooms in the face of Merry’s wheedling.

Merry’s face set stubbornly and he trailed Frodo out the door, crouching next to him in the mushroom patch. “I’m going to tell you a story then. One day this beautiful young lad went to a pub called The Green Dragon because his cruel, cold-hearted cousin wouldn’t give him any. But he didn’t find any at the pub either so he staggered back to his cousin’s smial only to find that he was tumbling the place down with his incredibly hot, incredibly _lad_ -like gardener. The poor lad sighed and made his way alone and dispirited to his room finding that the door to his cousin’s bedchamber was open and that the wails were practically deafening. And the door being wide open he couldn’t resist taking a peek…”

“Merry!” Frodo exclaimed. “You didn’t!”

“…but only to see what it was his cousin was doing to make his gardener wail so loudly that half of Hobbiton could have probably heard him.”

“Merry!”

Merry smiled. “Relax, Frodo. I did nothing of the kind, I’m surprised you could think it of me. But I do want to know what you were doing to make Sam howl. Come on now, I want details.

Frodo blushed to the tips of his ears. “You’ll not get a word out of me.”

Merry frowned. “I’ve made _you_ blush, haven’t I? Imagine how much damage I could inflict on Sam with this little piece of information that I’m sure that he would prefer that I didn’t know. Now, talk.”

Frodo’s blush deepened. “I… he… he has nice hands.” He stood abruptly and slung the now full basket to his hip. “Now that’s all you’re getting from me so don’t bother trying to get any more.”

Looking up at Frodo, Merry said impatiently, “I don’t want to know about his hands. I want to know about his… well, his everything else. Like… what do those muscles feel like when they’re rippling like river-water beneath your hands. Unless you were on the bottom, in which case – ”

“Merry! I have a hobbit asleep in my bed whose eyes are the colour of heaven and earth, who will wake soon, hungry and alone. I do not have time to dally with you and tell bedtime stories.”

Merry studied him, his eyes suddenly shaded and serious. He stood slowly from his crouch and made his way over to where Frodo was standing, looking awkward and a little vulnerable. He reached forward and took the basket from Frodo.

“You go be with him.” Merry said, wishing the words were not so painful, “I’ll get breakfast.”

Frodo hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Merry used his free hand to push his cousin towards the smial. “Now go before I change my mind.”

Pulling Merry to him for a quick hug, Frodo brushed his lips lightly across his cheek. “I love you, cos.”

Merry watched him go, his cheek tingling from the feel of Frodo’s soft kiss, trying not to feel so terribly abandoned. This feeling was transient, Merry knew this. There may even come a time when he could laugh about the secret love he harboured for Frodo back then when he was oh so young and oh so stupid. But right now it felt real. It felt as though his soul was being crushed and his heart was being burnt to cinders.

Merry turned and trudged in slowly after Frodo. He heard a door open somewhere in the depths of the smial and soft voices floated out full of tenderness and love. Involuntarily, Merry found himself listening, his eyes flicking to the hall as his ears registered the click of the door closing, effectively cutting off the murmured conversation. Placing the basket carefully onto the bench, Merry waited. His wait was not prolonged. From the silent depth came the faint echoes of breathy moans and sighs of pleasure.

“Typical,” Merry breathed, allowing himself a small, wry smile. Grabbing a tea towel from the bench, he draped it over the mushrooms and swiftly exited the kitchen, walking down the hall and out of the smial without a backward glance.


End file.
